The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Life and Adventures of Ben Hogan, the Wickedest Man in the World, by Benedict Hogan

THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF BEN HOGAN

BEN HOGAN.

THE
LIFE AND ADVENTURES
OF
BEN HOGAN,
THE
WICKEDEST MAN IN THE WORLD.

CONTAINING A FULL ACCOUNT OF HIS THRILLING AND
REMARKABLE EXPERIENCES, TOGETHER WITH A
COMPLETE REPORT OF HIS TRIUMPHS IN
THE PRIZE RING, AND HIS CAREER IN
THE OIL REGIONS, IN THE FAR
WEST, AND ON THE SEA.

Illustrated with over Twenty Engravings.

WRITTEN, UNDER MR. HOGAN’S IMMEDIATE SUPERVISION,
BY
GEORGE FRANCIS TRAINER.

Copyright, 1878, by Ben Hogan.

PREFACE.

The writer of these pages desires it understood that he has acted simply in the capacity of an amanuensis for Mr. Ben Hogan. The statements, opinions, incidents, revelations and views are all the latter gentleman’s.

It should be further explained that Mr. Hogan, and no one else, is responsible alike for the contents and publication of this volume.

This explicit statement is called forth by a sense of justice; for the writer himself would be very loath to lay claim to any of the brilliancy, wit, or delicacy in the choice of subjects which may be found in this book. The honor of all these belongs exclusively to Mr. Hogan.

George Francis Trainer.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTORY.

The life of any man is interesting as it reveals human nature and discloses character. Biography is in itself a combination of all those elements which go to make up literature. It is humor and pathos; it is poetry and prose; it is the sternest tragedy and the broadest farce. Fiction builds its most fantastic structures upon the inventions of the brain. Biography writes in lasting characters upon the granite front of truth. The record which it leaves is more wonderful than any flight of fancy—more startling than any outburst of imagination.

If it were possible to read the history of men’s lives written upon their faces, the world would have little need of romances. This shabbily-dressed figure, which to-day you jostle against in the street, might furnish material for a volume of exciting tales. That white-faced woman, who stares with a half-frightened look at the passers-by, could unfold a tale of more terrible interest than ever evolved itself from the brain of the novelist. Around and about us, in all places and at all times, the surging sea of humanity casts up its broken spars and dismantled hulks. Those who sail in calm waters, or walk the beach, may pick up these remnants of wrecks, and find in them clews to voyages full of tragic interest.

Since this duty is often neglected by the more prosperous voyagers, and since men’s faces are not books which they who run may read, it falls to the lot of the biographer to show to others the mystery of life.

Probably no man’s career, if truthfully told, would be wholly barren of interest. In proportion to the eventfulness of that career it gains in interest. But it is a very serious mistake to assume that a person’s avocation in life determines the rank to which he ought, properly, to be assigned. The art does not make the artist. It happens that there are a good many preachers in this world who can not preach, a good many actors who can not act, a good many writers who can not write. It happens, too, that there are a good many people who can not do anything—whose excuse for existing remains forever a conundrum. The written lives of such harmless ciphers would be of interest only in so far as they might show the uselessness of the subjects. But a study of any character which is strongly marked ought to prove both entertaining and instructive. Nor is it necessary that such a character should be spotless, in order to teach some wholesome lessons. It has been the lot of the writer to meet some eminently respectable persons who were at heart the most consummate hypocrites. He has known school-teachers who harped upon the necessity of bookish knowledge, while they fastened singular verbs to plural subjects. He has met newly-fledged college graduates who talked loud over a “liberal education,” and floundered in the shallow waters of English syntax. He has talked with crushed poets who cried out against the stupidity of the world, and read their own verses, more limping than the Count Joannes as Romeo. He has listened to straight-laced Puritans pray to be made more Christ-like, and seen them, an hour afterward, turn a starving beggar empty-handed from their door. He has heard pious directors of savings-banks denounce the stage as an instrument of the devil, and learned, the next day, that these sleek Pharisees were under indictments for robbing the poor. He has talked with alleged “statesmen” and found them roughs; with professed Christians, and found them narrow-minded bigots; with the representatives of what is called fashionable society, and found them noodle-heads. One day he met and talked with Ben Hogan, and he found a gentleman.

Does that surprise you?

Let us not fall into any misunderstanding at the outset of this narrative. The qualities which go to make up a gentleman are more readily appreciated than explained. They may be possessed by any man, no matter what his calling in life. They may be acquired under the most unpropitious circumstances, or they may never be acquired, in spite of surroundings and the advantages of education.

Ben Hogan is no saint—but it may be well to add that this volume is not undertaken with a view to promulgating an immoral lesson. Yet, though the hero shall not prove a saint, and though the record of his life may contain some shadows, it is believed that nothing in the pages which follow will be found to offend good taste. Saints, as a general rule, do not make first-rate material for the biographer. The man who launches his craft on life’s sea and sails along in quiet waters, never striking out upon any voyage of discovery, never running against any shoals or rocks, never breasting any storms—such a man, sailing peacefully on until he enters the great port of Death, may have a very pleasant time of it; but, when his voyage is over, the log-book is found to contain precious little which is of interest to the world. On the other hand, the mariner who strikes boldly out in search of adventure, who runs his frail craft over unexplored waters, who finds himself often stranded upon treacherous coasts, and who laughs at danger and glories in the hardships of an adventurer’s life—such a voyager leaves behind a record which must needs be racy reading. And even should it happen that this plucky mariner plays the pirate at intervals, that certainly would not detract any from the interest which attaches to his exploits.

A knowledge of men and the world comes only from personal acquaintance with the one and experience in the other. There is a sort of wisdom which is not contained in books. The man who would possess himself of that must tread the by-ways as well as the highways of life. This Ben Hogan has done. He has been a close observer of human nature, and he has made his observations from many and various points. Profiting by what that great teacher, Experience, has taught, he has become, in his own way, a philosopher. He has learned to gauge men at sight. This rare faculty has stood him in good stead throughout all his checkered career. In many of the exciting scenes which this work will undertake to describe, the power of measuring men for what they were worth proved the winning card in Hogan’s hand.

Added to this keen insight into human nature, he possesses a quick appreciation, not only of the humorous but the pathetic. Nobody ever appealed to him for aid without meeting with a generous response. It might appear to those who have met him only in the character of a jolly good fellow—the companion of an hour, over a bottle of wine—that he is not the sort of man who concerns himself about the misery and misfortune in this world. But such a conclusion would be eminently unjust. His sympathies have never been hardened by the rough knocks which the world has given him. And it is this very quickness of sympathy—this power to feel for others—which makes the poet.

Here, then, at the very outset of his task, the biographer has made his subject a gentleman, a philosopher, and a poet.

What! a pugilist a gentleman? A dance-house proprietor a philosopher? A prize-fighter a poet?

Calm your ruffled temper, oh, indignant critic! Let your fretful quills resume their normal, horizontal condition. This little book will not shake the rock-founded morals of society. Not at all. Is it against the law of Moses or the prophets that a pugilist should be a gentleman? That title, remember, can not be conferred by royalty. It can not be inherited along with houses and lands; but it may rightfully be claimed by the man, whether preacher or pugilist, who acts honorably toward his fellow men, who gives respectful attention to the opinion of others, and who endeavors to conduct himself so that his presence is always welcome. If that be a fair definition of a much-misunderstood word, then Ben Hogan is a gentleman. And why may not the proprietor of a dance-house be a philosopher? Is our barking critic quite sure that he knows what philosopher stands for, or what philosophy means? Not book-learning—for, bless your ignorant soul, Socrates himself counted life too precious to waste in reading. Your dictionary will tell you that the word philosopher means properly a lover of wisdom. There never lived a more passionate lover of wisdom than Ben Hogan. And for the poet: Does it follow that because a man hardens his muscles he likewise hardens his heart? Poetry loves to spring out of seemingly unseemly places. It grows in rough soil and flourishes where the sunshine never reaches. Bret Harte found truer poetry in the life and death of Poker Flat’s outcasts, than Martin Tupper could in the whole range of domestic morality. It is not necessary that a man should write verses to be a poet. What is demanded of him is a sympathetic nature. And that Ben Hogan has.

Perhaps the reader who happens to enjoy a personal acquaintance with the subject of this biography, may consider the foregoing as pretty steep flattery, not to say amazing nonsense. Let him remember, however, that the luxury of getting up a book about oneself is expensive; and certainly a man has a right to order that written which pleases him best. Mr. Hogan has availed himself of this privilege. He desires the world to know how great a man he is. He wants all his illustrious deeds embalmed in print. If, after reading this volume it shall occur to the world that Mr. Hogan is deceived with respect to himself; that he is not a great man at all, and that his illustrious deeds ought long ago to have landed him in prison—if the world, I repeat, shall come to any such conclusion as this, why, then it must settle accounts with Mr. Hogan himself. Greatness has been unappreciated before now, and it is possible that some will fail to understand why a man should voluntarily proclaim himself to be “The Wickedest Man in the World.”

THE “SAILOR BOY” PUNISHES HIS ADVERSARY.

THE LIFE AND ADVENTURES OF
BEN HOGAN:
THE WICKEDEST MAN IN THE WORLD.

CHAPTER I.

Early Life—Arrival in America—How he Avenged the Robbery of his Father—Mysterious Disappearance of the Old Jew—In the House of Refuge—Seafaring Life—Beginning of his Boxing Career.

Benedict Hagan, whose name has become familiar in the altered form of Hogan, is a native of Würtemberg, Germany. With his parents, he immigrated to this country at the age of eleven years.

His father was a cabinet-maker by trade, who had saved up something like a thousand dollars, with which he set forth to better his condition in the New World. Along with his family, he arrived in New York in the summer of 1852. His reception was not of the most encouraging nature, and an incident which occurred almost immediately after the landing of the family will serve to show the character of Hogan at that time.

As was customary with all emigrants who had any money to carry, the elder Hogan had secured his fortune, amounting to eight hundred dollars in gold, in a belt fastened about his shoulders. When he walked out of Castle Garden he was forthwith set upon by a Hebrew of the South street order, whose nose resembled his nature, because it was sharp. This enterprising Jew, who spoke German fluently, induced the emigrant to go into a small shop where everything was given away—for four times its value. The unsuspecting Hogan made a small purchase, and when he came to pay for it, disclosed the bag containing his gold. The sight was enough to rouse the Hebrew. Precisely how it happened he did not know; but in an amazingly short time Hogan senior found himself relieved of his eight hundred dollars.

Had it not been for the presence of young Ben, it may be safely assumed that the emigrant would never have gone forth from the Jew’s place alive. The boy, however, presented an obstacle to the commission of murder, which was undoubtedly intended by the robbers. They determined, therefore, to get rid of their victims by strategy instead of force. One of their “cappers” offered to lead the way to the police station where they might get assistance in recovering the money. He did lead the way, but it is unnecessary to add that there were not a great many police stations in the neighborhood to which he conducted them. The Hebrew perhaps thought that he had made one of the fattest “hauls” in his life; but it turned out to be a very dear job.

Young Ben, although a mere child, marked the man who had robbed his father, and resolved to be avenged. Three or four years afterward, he returned to New York, and after days of diligent search he discovered the Hebrew.

“That is the man!” he muttered to himself.

With two or three trusty companions, he resolved upon a plan of action which he proceeded to carry out.

The next day Ben called upon the Jew in his shop. He represented himself to be an employee of the Emigrant Department. He said that a great many chances came to him of making money, but he wanted a confederate. Would the Jew like to have him (Hogan) bring emigrants to the shop with plenty of money in their pockets? It wouldn’t be of much consequence how they got out of the shop!

“Dat vas a fine idea—a very fine idea!” answered the old vulture, rubbing his bony hands together. “You brings ’em in, and I’ll take care of how they goes out. And together ve’ll take care of all their gold!”

That night Ben called again at the shop and told the Jew that a very green young emigrant was waiting to take a walk along the docks.

“He’s got piles of money on him!” added Hogan.

The old Jew accordingly set forth with the green young emigrant. As a matter of fact, this verdant youth was one of Hogan’s companions; and the “piles of money” which Ben had described consisted of lumps of lead put into a bag, after the emigrant fashion.

Fate is a curious thing in this world. That old Hebrew, for instance, started forth from his shop on the night in question, intent upon robbing the green young emigrant and throwing his body into the river. But he didn’t carry out his plans. Perhaps he retired from his South street den. Perhaps he concluded to take a tour to Jerusalem; or perhaps he went to Canada; or perhaps his foot tripped, and he fell into the East river. Whatever his fate, he didn’t rob any more emigrants of their hard-earned savings.

Relieved of his gold, the senior Hogan, with his family, removed to Syracuse, N. Y., which city he made his permanent home. The family was not by any means rich in this world’s goods, and it became necessary for Ben to do something toward his own support. His first venture at money-making was in the line of a peddler. His father bought him an outfit—the horse could not trot under thirty, but he did very well to draw a peddler’s cart—costing, in all, twenty-five dollars. The young peddler’s first day was not altogether successful. He made a number of sales and exchanges, but when he came to balance his accounts he found that he was four dollars out of pocket. The next day, however, he did better, and at the end of six months he had cleared seventy-five dollars.

It may be well to remark here, that, from his earliest boyhood, Ben Hogan has possessed the faculty of making money. He never saved any, because he is too open handed to take any thought of the morrow. But, if he has not saved, he has rarely wanted. His ingenuity and quick wit have invariably “made a raise,” and prevented him from remaining “broke” any length of time.

Among the experiences of this epoch in his career was one which resulted somewhat seriously for our hero. It was found out by a companion that there was a big house near the city occupied by a minister, who had a large collection of books; in these books were many fine engravings, and it occurred to this youngster that if he could get hold of these pictures he might make his fortune by exhibiting them. It was plain that the books would not come to him, and he accordingly concluded to go to the books. For obvious reasons he did not ring the front-door bell, nor leave his card behind him. He found it more convenient to go through the window. In a wagon which he had brought with him for the purpose, he carted off a large number of valuable volumes, tore out the pictures, and threw the books away, telling Ben he had bought the pictures.

Ben Hogan’s career as a showman may be said to have begun when he first exhibited these engravings which had embellished the library of the clergyman. They were steel engravings, which perhaps was why they were stolen. The adventure proved a success while it lasted, but it didn’t last very long. At one and two cents admission the gallery was crowded; but at the very opening of a prosperous season the youthful manager was arrested. This naturally interfered with the show. Although the boy had not really committed anything like a crime here, he was sent to the penitentiary, where he remained thirty days.

Upon his release he went to work in his father’s cabinet shop, but was not wholly contented there. The roving spirit within him began thus early to develop itself. Among Ben’s acquaintances at this time were a couple of choice young spirits known in Syracuse as Joe Heizler and “Red Jacket.” Probably the owner of this latter distinctive appellation had been christened by some other name, but he was known always and only as Red Jacket. The three boys determined upon setting forth from home and finding out what the world was beyond the salt limits of Onondaga county. Accordingly they got together their limited capital, and without troubling themselves to check their trunks, started for Oswego.

They reached that flour-y and flourishing town with fifty cents in their pockets, failed to get a very cordial reception from Landlord Hartmann, and proceeded to look about for work. Ben was the only one of the trio who had pluck and energy enough to succeed. He found employment on board of a schooner lying in port, and by working like a beaver, earned enough to support his companions. Finding that board bills would be inconvenient to settle, it occurred to Ben that housekeeping would be more economical. Neither a house nor furniture bothered him so much as a stove with which to prepare the meals. He finally mustered up courage to go into a hardware store and tell the proprietor that he would rather have a stove than any amount of stock in an insurance company.

“What do you want a stove for?” asked the astonished merchant.

“To keep house with!” was the prompt reply. “If you will trust me for that stove, I’ll pay you as sure as I live!”

The earnest manner of the boy had its effect upon the merchant, who not only let Ben have the stove, but provided him with a small house on the outskirts of the town, where the three companions took up their residence. Ben not only earned all the money, but he was housekeeper and cook as well. How long they might thus have lived must remain a conundrum, for the household was abruptly broken up one day by the appearance of a policeman, who took the runaways back to Syracuse.

Ben was again put to work in his father’s shop, but the restraint of the place led to frequent eruptions, and finally, with a view to breaking his refractory spirit, he was sent to the House of Refuge in Rochester. He remained there three months.

The reader will pardon a brief interruption in the narrative while the writer gives expression to some opinions concerning Houses of Refuge and other similar institutions. Mr. Hogan believes—and his belief, I think, will be shared by all who give the subject careful attention—that, as at present conducted, these places are more productive of evil than of good. Boys are thrust into a House of Refuge where they find many associates more hardened than themselves, and where they learn a good deal of wickedness which they did not know before. The more advanced in crime become the teachers of those who are just entering the broad path. Impure habits are terribly common among the boys confined in these Houses of Refuge. Even worse is the condition of many of the asylums and reformatories for women. If a woman has once fallen, she will not be apt to be reclaimed by entering one of these places. Better far if the mother or father of a girl who has gone astray should say to her, “You have done wrong, but I will not cast you off; try to redeem the past by making your life pure hereafter.” Such words as those would do more to restore Magdalene to true womanhood than all the philanthropic institutions which were ever erected. Ben Hogan bears testimony to the fact that he learned nothing good during his three months’ sojourn in the Rochester institution; and unless he had been a pretty clear-headed boy he would have come out a good deal worse than he did.

Upon returning home, Ben tried his hand at cabinet-making again; but he was no more contented than before. Opposite his father’s shop was a building with a chain running over a pulley, and this chain was a constant temptation to our hero. Whenever he could get the opportunity, he would slip out and climb up the chain to the top of the building, letting himself down head foremost with his feet. This performance excited considerable admiration from those who witnessed it, and the young athlete was called upon to repeat it frequently.

One day a dispute arose between Ben and the foreman of the shop, in which the latter undertook to tell the boy what he should, and what he should not do. Thinking that one “boss” was enough, and that his father rightfully held that position, the young cabinet-maker gave an exhibition of his skill in the manly art by planting a backhander square on the foreman’s nose. When he picked himself up, he was more of a hind man than a foreman. And he didn’t have any more to say to Ben.

Shortly after this episode, the desire to see the world again took possession of our hero, and with very little preparation he left Syracuse. He took with him Red Jacket, Joe Heizler, Nick Shearer, and as big a stock of crackers and cheese as could be purchased for a dollar and a half. It may be remarked incidentally that the crackers and cheese stood by Ben better than any of his companions. They traveled by the Erie canal as far as Schenectady, and there got a job at cutting broom-corn. Red Jacket and the others soon became homesick, and at the end of a couple of weeks disappeared; but Ben kept pluckily to his work, and at the end of five weeks he set out for Albany with a new suit of clothes and fifteen dollars in his pocket. I say “pocket,” although he really carried his money in his stocking. The conductor on the train was induced to let the boy ride free, Ben telling him that he hadn’t a cent of money, and that he would pay him some other time.

THE WAMBOLD.

Once in Albany, our hero lost no time in securing work, which he found on the tow-boat “Belle.” His idea was to get to New York, and then to strike out at whatever presented itself. The captain of the “Belle” evinced a good deal of interest in the boy, and proposed to take him to his home in the country when the boating season should end. Ben listened demurely to this proposition, and said he “would see.” After making a couple of trips or so, the captain wasn’t able to see his protege as much as formerly. In fact, Ben had no relish for the idea of a home in the country and so remained in New York.

It was at this period that he shipped as cabin-boy on the “Humboldt,” where he continued for two years. His readiness to do whatever was demanded of him, added to his indomitable pluck, enabled him to make a considerable sum in the way of extra wages; so that at the end of the two years he had saved up two hundred and seventy-five dollars in gold. This entire amount he sent to his father in Syracuse. The fact that he did not even let his parents know from whom the money came, furnishes an excellent illustration of his character. Throughout his life Ben Hogan has done a good many generous acts, but he has not troubled himself about advertising them to the world.

It was during the time that his ship was lying in port that Ben happened to be passing through Crosby street one night, when he saw, in blazing letters, the word “Gymnasium.” That was a staggerer for the young tar. He had heard of a good many curious things in this world, but he had never before heard of a gymnasium. Crossing the street, he stood looking eagerly at the entrance of the building, when the door opened, and he caught sight of ropes and chains and flying-rings. That proved too much for him to withstand, and so he made his way into the place. The apparatus filled him with wonder, but he took to it as naturally as a duck takes to water, or a Fourth Ward politician takes to whisky. Seeing others lifting the dumb-bells and swinging the clubs, he forthwith began to do the same himself. His fun was suddenly interrupted by the proprietor of the place, who came up and demanded what he was doing.

“Don’t you see?” answered Ben, raising first one hand and then the other.

“But you don’t belong here,” continued the proprietor.

“Oh, that don’t make any difference,” answered the young salt, vigorously working with the bells; “I’ll do this for nothing—you needn’t mind about paying me!”

The gymnasium proprietor stared in amazement, but Ben was too much in earnest to admit of the suspicion that he was “guying.” Finally he explained to the boy that a course of lessons would cost twenty-five dollars. Ben offered twenty-five cents for a part of a course, but the offer was not accepted. Then the teacher induced him to put on the gloves, and pitted him against a boy of about his own size. The other boy understood boxing and Ben didn’t. The result was that our hero, although he showed plenty of pluck and was game all through, came out second best. He resolved, then and there, that he would get somebody to show him how to use his hands, and take satisfaction out of that “other boy.”

This resolve he carried out. Upon the recommendation of the gymnasium keeper, he called upon Wood, and showed such aptness in the manly art, that in two weeks’ time he went back and polished off his former antagonist in the most approved style.

The fascination of the gloves proved so strong that Ben made up his mind to leave the “Humboldt,” which he accordingly did. Devoting pretty much all his time to the practice of boxing, he soon became wonderfully expert for one of his age, and was known in sporting circles as “The Sailor Boy.” Under the patronage of Billy Clark, he attended a sparring exhibition one night, and was matched against a boy considerably bigger than himself, but whom he disposed of in short order. Then the crowd found a second youth, who also put on the mittens, but finding that “The Sailor Boy” was too much for him, resorted to his feet, and dealt Ben a kick.

This was a style of boxing which our young hero had not been taught; nevertheless, he was prepared to pay back in the same coin. He had on, at that time, a pair of heavy brogans, such as are often seen upon German emigrants. Dropping at once to the little game of his antagonist, Ben raised his foot and gave him a kick which doubled him up in a sort of pretzel-shaped bow-knot. He rolled about on the stage like a kangaroo suffering from the colic, while his backers shouted and swore, and the crowd yelled itself hoarse. In the midst of this general hubbub, “The Sailor Boy” quietly slipped out of the hall.

Thus ended Ben Hogan’s first public sparring match. It came precious near ending the fellow who fought against him, and it is safe to assume that he never kicked a man after that without first looking to see whether he wore brogans.

THE PIRATE “SPHINX” CAPTURING A RICH TREASURE.

CHAPTER II.

A Remarkable Game of Poker and What Came of it—Ben as a Pirate—Fast Life in New York—How he gave a Combination Show in Oswego.

After remaining in New York for a short time, Hogan returned to Syracuse, where he opened a boxing-room. His rates for instruction were certainly low enough, the price for a lesson being fixed at three cents. He became a member of Hose Company No. 4, and was well known throughout the city as a boy who could use his fists to good advantage.

Syracuse, however, did not ofter attractions enough to keep our hero long within its borders. He struck out again for himself, and drifted to the West, where occurred an incident of tragic interest.

By a stroke of remarkable luck, Ben had invested five dollars in a St. Louis lottery—which city he had reached in the course of his wanderings—and the number which he bought drew a prize of seven hundred and fifty dollars. With this money in his pocket, Ben determined to visit New Orleans. On the trip down the Mississippi he fell in with a party of professional gamblers, who used to infest the boats in those days.

Although Ben, as we know, had already knocked about the world a good deal, he was comparatively ignorant of cards. Draw-poker, which was the great game on Mississippi steamers, he knew little about. He had played it once or twice, and learned to hold a pair or flush when he got them; but the intricate points of the science he had not mastered. This explanation is necessary that the reader may understand what follows. The gamblers in question succeeded in persuading Ben to sit down to a quiet little game. He alternately won and lost for some time, when one of the players dealt him four aces. Of course Ben went his last dollar on this hand. The money was promptly covered by one of the sharpers, and at last the call was made.

“I’ve got four aces!” exclaimed Ben, showing his hand, and making a move as if to take in the money.

“One minute!” said the gambler. “I beat your four aces. I have got five jacks!”

Ben looked a little dazed.

“The money is certainly his,” said one of the cappers, who had led Ben into the game.

“But I thought,” stammered Ben, “I thought four aces beat anything in the pack.”

“So they do,” replied the oily-tongued sharper; “anything except five of a kind. Of course five jacks are better than four aces. There’s no question about that. And of course the money is mine!”

Saying this, he raked in Ben’s seven hundred dollars, leaving the young fellow without a cent.

Hogan couldn’t exactly get it through his head how he could have lost the money with four aces; but, as explained above, he was too ignorant of the game to detect the swindle.

He went to the captain, hoping to get some explanation, but that functionary declined to listen to his story. He said he must settle his gambling disputes as best he could.

Then he went back to the sharpers, and begged them to let him have twenty-five or thirty dollars, as he had lost every penny; but they refused to give up a dollar.

Ben was dazed and half-maddened by his loss. Finally he told the gamblers that he would find somebody else on the boat to be fleeced, providing they would give him a percentage of the spoils. This they readily agreed to do, and so Ben went up on to the hurricane deck in search of a victim.

There he fell in with rather of a green merchant, who soon revealed to him the fact that he had between fifteen and sixteen hundred dollars about his person. Ben invited him down to play. As they were passing through the gangway, a sudden impulse seized Hogan to possess himself of this stranger’s money at any hazard. The gangway was open at either end, and as they were passing close to the unguarded space, Ben pretended to trip, falling against the stranger and knocking him overboard; but he immediately shouted and jumped into the water, with a view to save the unfortunate fellow.

It may not be wise to enter into these details too fully; but it may be said that the merchant struggled to the surface alive. Furthermore, when Ben was dragged on board the boat, he had not about him the fifteen hundred and odd dollars which had previously belonged to the stranger. It is a wonder that the latter was not swallowed by an alligator. But how the money was allowed to rest in his pocket must remain a mystery.

Hogan continued his trip to New Orleans, but did not engage in any more draw-poker with the gentlemen who were accustomed to hold five jacks. If the money had come to him in a doubtful manner, it went in the same way. He drifted about for a few weeks, and finally brought up in Charleston without a dollar.

Now comes a period in his career which for wild adventure and hairbreadth escapes surpasses any romance. Finding himself in Charleston with no money and nothing to do, he determined to “make a raise” in some manner, whatever it might be. Money was his god, and he was prepared to lay burnt offerings or any other kind of offerings upon the altar. The opportunity came to him in a remarkable way.

Late one night Ben was sitting in a saloon near the docks when a black-haired, savage-faced man entered the place, and, taking three fingers of brandy straight, sat down near our hero. After eyeing him intently for a few minutes, he said:

“Would you like a job?”

“I should like nothing better,” answered Ben.

The man dropped his voice to a whisper.

“Are you particular about the kind of work?”

“I am ready for anything,” answered our hero.

The stranger cast a look about the room to see that nobody was watching them, and then bending down, said. “I am a pirate!”

The announcement did not in the least disconcert Ben. On the contrary, he expressed his perfect willingness to join the black craft, and on the day following he sailed out of Charleston on board the “Sphinx.” It is, perhaps, unnecessary to explain that the real name of this ship is not given. In this narrative, however, “Sphinx” will serve as well as any other word to designate the craft.

During the six months that Ben Hogan sailed under the flag of the skull and cross-bones he encountered adventures enough to fill a larger volume than this. As he has since described it, he lost all semblance to humanity, and became more like a wild beast than a man. Among the rich booty which the “Sphinx” succeeded in capturing was a ship returning from the Bahama Islands with a chest of gold and jewels valued at two hundred thousand dollars. After this prize had been securely stored away in the “Sphinx” a quarrel arose as to the distribution of the treasure. The pirate captain refused to share with the men on equal terms. Ben, although the youngest of the crew, was made spokesman, and threatened that unless the chief came to terms, he would put him where he would care very little what became of the booty. At this, the captain dealt him a blow with his fist, but he found that he had tackled a bad customer. The Sailor Boy sailed into his black-whiskered antagonist, and gave him such a thrashing as he had never had before. This at once made a hero of Ben, and the crew placed their former chief in irons, and kept him there until the end of the cruise.

From that time forward Ben was the real commander of the ship; space prevents a fuller description of his exploits; nor, indeed would it be wise to give in detail all that happened during his voyage. Suffice it to say that at the end of six months the young pirate abandoned his wild life, and drifted back to New York with fifty thousand dollars in his pockets.

Other men of his class would have spent this money, if they had spent it at all, in the low groggeries on Water street. Not so Ben Hogan. The pirate of yesterday was changed into an elaborately dressed gentleman to-day. His quiet manner and respectful bearing carried him into circles which his former companions could never have entered. In the costliest of broadcloth, with a magnificent diamond upon his immaculate shirt-front, Ben moved among the “bloods” of New York, a brilliant but unknown star.

And a jolly life he led of it while his “boodle” lasted. A good deal has been written about the extravagance of Jim Fisk during his palmy days; but Fisk never spent money half as recklessly as did Ben Hogan when he struck New York at that time. In a single day he went through with seven hundred dollars, simply for wine and cigars. In company with a very beautiful, but not over-virtuous woman, he drove through Fifth avenue in an open coach drawn by four white horses, drinking champagne as he went. He stepped into a small saloon on Cortlandt street one day and asked the proprietor what he considered the establishment worth.

“Five hundred dollars,” was the answer.

Ben pulled out an immense roll of bank-notes, laid a five-hundred-dollar bill upon the bar, and told the man to “clear out.” The astonished bar keeper took the money, and did as directed. Then Hogan invited the “setters” about the place to help themselves to whatever they wanted, and wound up by presenting the establishment, with all its fixtures, to an old man whom he had never seen before.

It goes without saying that this sort of career soon made a serious hole in his pile. Living in elegant up-town apartments; supporting half a dozen women in princely style; drinking nothing but the choicest wines, and scattering his money on every side, it did not take very long to go through the entire fifty thousand dollars. It should be remembered that he was still a mere boy, but he showed himself quite a man in recklessness and extravagance.

When his last dollar had been parted with, Ben again became a vagabond in search of work. He was glad to take up with anything that offered itself, and that anything was a job on a tow-boat. He made two trips, during which he found time to thrash the mate—for which little service the captain of the boat thanked him sincerely. His reputation as a boxer began to spread, and under the belief that he had learned all there was to learn of the manly art, he once more returned to Syracuse, intending to remain there permanently.

In the building known as Malcolm Hall, at the corner of Railroad and Salina streets, he opened a gymnasium, in company with a teacher of elocution. He made all his own apparatus, spring-boards, bars, etc., and even turned his own Indian clubs. It was his ambition, at this time, to become the strongest man in the world. He put himself upon a diet of raw beef, rye or Graham bread, and drank nothing but milk, with an occasional glass of ale. With the beef he ate large quantities of onions, which probably helped to prevent any bad effects which the meat might have produced.

It was during his sojourn in Syracuse at this time that he engaged in a glove contest with Anthony Kelly, a boxer of considerable local reputation. Kelly was a most expert representative of the manly art, and the contest excited a good deal of attention. It was won by Hogan, after a very spirited and lively set-to.

Under the training and diet already described, Ben gained rapidly in strength, and became a model of muscular development. He lifted, at that time, fifteen hundred pounds, and he could hold out ninety-five pounds with any one of his fingers. He continued the diet of raw beef for four years, and would probably have gone on eating it indefinitely had he not been warned by physicians that it was injurious for him.

An amusing incident occured in his life at this period. He happened to visit Oswego (the scene of his early housekeeping) and while there attended the “Naiad Queen,” brought out under Capt. Smith’s management. The show was one that would hardly have passed muster in a New York theatre, but it drew a big house in Oswego, and it gave Ben an idea. Returning to Syracuse he got a lot of posters printed, setting forth, in glowing terms, the attractions of “a monster combination,” in which would appear Ben Hogan, “the strongest man in the world,” and a host of other stars. With these bills and some other traps he made his way again to Oswego. Not having any agent and not being flush enough to call upon a regular bill-poster, he donned an old suit of clothes, smeared his face with dirt, and set out to post himself.

Wherever he put up one of the bills, a crowd would naturally gather around and pass comments upon the “monster combination.”

“Who is this Ben Hogan, anyway?” was the general inquiry.

“Why, didn’t you ever hear of him?” Ben would reply. “He’s a bad man, I tell you—the strongest man in the world. I know him myself, and if you don’t want to miss the biggest show ever seen, you won’t stay away!”

In this way, the talkative bill-poster set the town on the qui vive to see the “monster combination.” Meantime, laying aside the old clothes, Ben appeared in a striking costume, which he had prepared expressly for the occasion. It consisted of a low-crowned, broad-brimmed silk hat, a short cut-away coat, a pair of very tight trowsers, and a flaming neckerchief. Thus arrayed, he made his appearance at the hotel and in the streets. Wherever he went somebody was sure to turn around and ask:

“Who is that?”

A friend of Ben’s, who professed not to know him, was on hand every time to answer.

“That,” he would say, “that is Ben Hogan. Greatest boxer in the country—strongest man in the world. If you want a big thing you’ll go to his show to-night!”

The result of all this was that when evening came the house was packed. It is perhaps unnecessary to say that the “monster combination” was composed entirely of Hogan. The bills announced first a “daring act upon the trapeze,” which Ben, dressed in tights, and with enough chalk and paint upon his face to disguise him, undertook to perform. The undertaking was not altogether a success. In the midst of one of his most thrilling feats, he lost his balance and fell to the stage. If there had been any walnuts or things under him, he would have certainly cracked them into fine pieces, for he came down with force enough to shake the building. The audience was stricken with horror, but the trapeze performer managed to get off of the stage and the show went on. The next feature, according to the programme, was a tumbling act by one of the “Whitney Brothers.” Ben again appeared, with more chalk and paint on his face, and did the act to the entire satisfaction of the spectators. Then the other Whitney brother, in the person of Ben, was seen upon the horizontal bar. And finally, Hogan himself came bowing on to the stage, and was greeted with tremendous applause, nobody in the house suspecting that he had been seen before. Ben did several feats, including the breaking of a stone upon his breast, and the entertainment wound up with a boxing contest between Hogan and one of the local celebrities. Altogether the show was a big success, and the audience went home perfectly satisfied.

Ben made some excuse for the non-appearance of the “Whitney Brothers” at the hotel, and as the show yielded three hundred dollars, it is safe to assume that the “brothers” got their salaries in full.

CHAPTER III.

A Southern Trip—Experiences in New Orleans and Mobile—Three Men put under the Sod by Ben’s Bullets.

Shortly after the Oswego venture, Ben drifted once more to the West, and after a series of exciting adventures, which space prevents me from narrating, he brought up in the city of New Orleans.

There, one day, in a saloon which is somewhat famous as a resort for sporting characters, he became involved in a discussion with a stranger, the conversation leading to the subject of boxing. Ben, who felt the utmost confidence in his own fists, was not disposed to hear challenges thrown out at random without signifying his willingness to accept the same. The stranger in question, who may be designated by the title of Baldy, was disposed to be somewhat personal in his remarks.

“I tell you what it is,” he exclaimed, bringing his fist down on the bar with an emphatic thump, “I can lick any man that ever came from the North!”

Ben looked upon this as an invitation to respond, which he did promptly.

“I’m from the North,” he said, “and I’m willing to fight you whenever you say so.”

“From the North, are you?” returned Baldy. “Well, I reckon you must have come by the way of Germany, didn’t you? You don’t suppose any damned Dutchman can fight with a Southern gentleman, do you?”

Ben quietly signified his belief that, in spite of his being “a damned Dutchman,” he could furnish the Southern “gentleman” with all the satisfaction he wanted.

This dispute culminated in an agreement to proceed at once to a spot in the outskirts of the city, where the Southerner and Hogan could settle matters without delay.

Ben had no friends in the city, but he carried with him a six-shooter, and was ready enough to accept any risks for the sake of a fight.

The party, consisting of half a dozen spectators besides the principals, drove to the spot agreed upon. Ben and his antagonist threw off their coats, and faced each other for business. Hogan supposed the fight was to be a fair contest with the fists, and had no suspicion of any more serious encounter. For a time the Southerner parried and dealt the blows in a scientific manner; but becoming enraged at a blinder in the left eye, he clinched with Ben, and the match became a rough-and-tumble fight. It was very hot on both sides while it lasted. Ben fought like a tiger, and Baldy fumed and swore, as they rolled over the ground. Finally, seeing that Ben was too much for him, he drew a revolver, and seizing the opportunity, held the muzzle close to Hogan’s temple, and pulled the trigger. The weapon missed fire, and before he could cock it again, Ben had whipped out his own shooter, and in another moment the sharp report of a pistol rang out on the air! The men had struggled to their feet during the encounter, but now the Southerner fell back, exclaiming:

“My God, I am shot!”

The bullet had nearly done its work with terrible certainty. Ben’s antagonist lay stretched there for dead. He had fired purely in self-defense, and this fact was so apparent to the entire party that they made no effort to attack our hero.

With the now unconscious Baldy, the men returned to the city, where Hogan surrendered himself to the authorities. He felt that he had been perfectly justified in the course he had pursued, and felt little or no apprehension as to the result of the adventure.

New Orleans was in a state of too intense excitement at that time to make a trial in her civil courts a matter of much importance. Ben was arraigned, but discharged on condition that he should enter the Confederate service. This, of course, he readily agreed to do.

He was stationed in one of the barracks of the city, and in twenty-four hours’ time succeeded in making his escape.

He drifted from New Orleans to Mobile, still in search of adventure, and still prepared to profit by any new turn which Fortune’s wheel might make. His sojourn in this latter city, although brief, was by no means uneventful.

On the second day after his arrival he formed the acquaintance of a party of professional gamblers, who invited him to engage in a game of draw-poker. His former experience in this seductive pastime did not prevent him from accepting the proposition to play. He had grown wiser now, and knew that five jacks would not pass muster under the laws of Hoyle or of ex-Minister Moulte. The game was played in a room occupied by the gamblers, and situated over one of the principal dry goods stores of the city.

It will be necessary to introduce the reader to two of the three men who made up the party. One was a life-long Southerner, whose passion for gaming had reduced him to such extremities that he was ready for any undertaking, no matter how desperate, if it promised to yield money. He had been the proprietor of a large plantation, but had squandered his entire fortune at cards. The other gambler was an Englishman by birth, and a most desperate character. He had spent the better part of his life in New Orleans, where he was familiarly known as Reddy. He was a scoundrel of the deepest dye, without any of the suavity of manner which characterized his companion.

With these two men as antagonists, and with a third as a looker-on, Ben sat down to the game. He had with him some two hundred dollars, which he had won at faro while in Mobile. For an hour or so, the play progressed without any material advantage to any one, although it was evident that the two gamblers were playing together to fleece Hogan. At last Ben was dealt a hand in which was contained the ace of spades. He drew, however, to a pair of queens, and was lucky enough to get a third. As this made a stronger hand than had been shown up for some time, he went his pile on its soundness. Reddy passed out of the hand, but the Southerner covered Ben’s bets, until the pot contained four hundred dollars.

“What have you got?” demanded Ben.

His antagonist laid down three aces—among them the ace of spades.

“That beats me,” remarked Hogan quietly.

The Southerner put out his hand to draw in the money.

“One minute,” said Ben, throwing down the cards, and rising to his feet; “this is a skin game, and you can’t touch that money!”

“What do you mean?” demanded the Southerner, also rising to his feet, and at the same time turning pale with rage.

“Just what I say,” answered Ben. “This is a skin game. I was dealt the ace of spades, discarded it, and you show it up in your hand. I demand the right now to go through the cards, and show that there are two aces of spades in the pack.”

“I’ll be damned if you will!” broke in Reddy, jumping to his feet, and at the same time drawing a revolver. “D’ye mean to insult us?”

Ben wore an English walking jacket, in the pocket of which he carried his revolver. With one hand resting upon the trusty weapon, he made answer to his antagonists:

“I am unarmed, gentlemen, and I trust to your honor not to shoot me.”

“Oh the devil take your honor,” rejoined the Southerner. “You leave that money alone and get out of here, or we’ll put a bullet through you before you can wink!”

“Yes,” chimed in Reddy, “I’m damned if I don’t put a bullet through him whether he clears out or not!”

Seeing the desperate position in which he was placed, Ben resolved upon desperate measures. Just as Reddy was cocking his pistol, Hogan, by a sharp, quick blow, struck the weapon out of his hand. Then, whipping forth his own revolver, he discharged one bullet at Reddy, and a second at his companion—the latter also having drawn a shooter. The two men dropped to the floor. The third, who was unarmed, attempted to seize one of his confederates’ pistol, but Ben threatened to shoot him also if he stirred an inch. Then gathering up the four hundred dollars, our hero passed out of the room, locked the door behind him, and made his way into the street.

It did not take him long to get out of Mobile. From the reports which afterward reached him, he learned that none of the gamblers had been killed by his shots. Under the circumstances, he did not trouble his conscience. By easy stages he made his way North, and eventually brought up in Albany.

STEAMER BURNSIDE.

CHAPTER IV.

Ben as a Spy in both the Union and Confederate Armies—The Buried Treasure—How he Fooled the Captain—At Port Royal and Newberne—Bounty-Jumping.

As already stated, Ben, on his return from the South, made his way to Albany. The work of enlisting soldiers for the war was at this time under full headway. Hogan was by no means ambitious to win fame on the field of battle, but he saw a good chance to make money by going South, and he accordingly went.

On board the “America” he sailed for Port Royal, S. C. The vessel was wrecked, but by lashing himself to the mast, Ben escaped. Arrived at Port Royal, he informed the commander of the Union troops stationed there that he would act as a private spy, and this offer was promptly accepted. Immediately after he set out for Charleston, held a personal interview with a certain General, and under that leader’s direction he assumed the character of a spy for the Confederate forces. It will thus be seen that Ben was pledged to give each side all the information he could gather concerning the other. But it may be added that he did not perform this duty conscientiously.

All this time he was working on board the steamer, and by laying in a large stock of quinine, tobacco, etc., which he disposed of at an immense profit, he cleared something like $18,000.

A snobbish sort of fellow visited the steamer one day with a plentiful supply of choice wines and cigars, with which he expected to get into the good graces of the officers; but Ben seized the opportunity to confiscate the liquid treasure, and in place of wine, the high-toned visitor found that his bottles were filled with soapy water.

A tragic incident occurred shortly afterward. The mate of the vessel quarreled with Ben, and while the latter was lying in his berth, crept in upon him, dagger in hand, with the avowed purpose of taking his life. Had it not been for the timely warning of a companion, the hero of this narrative would certainly have ended his career then and there. As it was, however, Hogan was prepared for the assault, warded off the blow intended for his heart, and shot the mate on the spot. The bullet did its work so well that the man lay at the point of death for days.

Leaving the steamer, Ben found himself in Charleston, ready for anything which might turn up. His inventive brain conceived the idea of running the steamer “Planter” into Union waters, and securing whatever prize-money he could. To carry out this bold plan he secured the services of three negroes, to whom he told glowing stories of the money and fame they would win if they succeeded in the enterprise.

“Why,” said Ben, “if you steal this steamer and get it up North you’ll be such big boys that they’ll put you into Barnum’s museum as curiosities!”

This was enough to persuade the darkies to undertake anything, and they actually succeeded in running away with the “Planter.” But they never got any prize-money, nor did Barnum offer them an opening in his museum.

We next find Hogan assigned to spy duty at Blufftown, by Gen. Hunter. Scouting about the country he learned from a negro that a chest containing watches, jewels, and money was hidden under the cellar of a house which had been deserted. This information was enough to put Ben to work in short order, digging for the treasure. While thus engaged he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs approaching. Making his way out of the house, he found that the dreaded Black Cavalry was upon him. He dashed through the swamps and underbrush, closely pursued by the horsemen, who discharged their revolvers at him in quick succession. None of the bullets took effect, however, and the cavalrymen could not follow through the stubble and underbrush. Ben reached the troops who had been sent out with him, gave the alarm, and all got back to the steamer in safety.

Not satisfied with this experience, Ben returned to the deserted house next day, only to find that the treasure had been removed, and to behold the negro who had given him the information hanging dead to a tree.

Ben’s return North from Port Royal was attended by an interesting adventure. His reputation had spread abroad as a dangerous man. Many crimes were laid to his door which he had never committed. The mere mention of his name caused people to shudder. As a result of all this, he found himself shut off from the privilege of sailing on the “Burnside,” as he had anticipated doing. He was on board the steamer just as she was about to sail, when it became known that he was Ben Hogan.

The captain at once told him that he could not make the passage on that boat.

“This man?” the crew shouted. “Sail with him? Why, he’s a pirate, a cut-throat, a murderer! He’ll kill us all! He’s Ben Hogan!”

This last assertion climaxed it all; and in spite of threats and entreaties, Ben was forced to disembark. But he was not discouraged—not at all—and going to Gen. Fuller, he secured a passport.

The “Burnside” had no more than fairly got under way when those on board saw a man swinging his arms wildly and heard him shout:

“Mail! mail! I’ve got the mail!”

As the captain was expecting the mail, he could do nothing but wait until the man on the bank had launched out for the steamer, which he accordingly did. The stranger, who was supposed to bring with him the mail, was drawn up over the side of the “Burnside,” when, to his consternation, the captain discovered that he was none other than Ben Hogan!

“What do you mean?” he cried angrily. “Haven’t I told you that you can’t sail on this vessel?”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Ben quietly. “I sail on whatever vessel I want to; just steam ahead, and keep cool.”

When the “Burnside” ran into Newberne, Ben was taken before the Provost Marshal; but, to the amazement of his accusers, that official said:

“This man has more power than I have. You had better make peace with him, for if he says you may go, you may; and if he says you can’t, why you can’t!”

After this startling announcement, Ben’s enemies concluded that it would be wise to hold their peace. He made the rest of the voyage to Boston on the “Burnside.”

Some time after this occurrence, Ben happened to run across the old captain in New York. He professed to be overjoyed at the meeting, and invited him to go to the nearest saloon, where they drank to one another’s health with great cordiality. The captain was a little man with an odd, weazen face, and full of eccentricities. He wore, on this particular occasion, an old-fashioned swallow-tail coat which must have seen a good many years of service. Ben made up his mind to have a little sport at his companion’s expense, and so, getting some lampblack in the saloon, he smeared it over his hands, and then stepping up to the captain, exclaimed:

“By Jove, you’ve grown fat since I saw you last!”

As he spoke, he rubbed his hands over the Captain’s face, leaving enough of the lampblack to make him look ridiculous. Then, as they stood taking a final drink at the bar, Ben dextrously slipped his hand behind him and cut off one of the tails of that wonderful coat.

“Let’s take a walk up Broadway,” suggested Hogan.

The captain at once agreed, and arm-in-arm the two started through the streets.

Wholly unconscious of the absurdity of his appearance the captain couldn’t make out what all the people were laughing at. But, remembering that his face was smeared with daubs of lampblack and that his coat was minus one of its tails, the reader will perhaps appreciate the cause of the merriment. Ben gave the wink to all the policemen they met, assured the captain that the people were not laughing at him, and thus the two traveled Broadway from Cortlandt street to Union Square. It was a richer spectacle than one is apt to see every day.

After his return from Port Royal, Ben remained around New York for about a month, and then sailed for Newberne, N. C., on the “Cosmopolitan.” He first made himself conspicuous in that town by giving a trapeze performance at the top of the ship’s mast, which attracted a big crowd, and which set the inhabitants at once to talking about Ben Hogan. Soon afterward he was introduced to Gen. Foster, who gave him the position of steward on the “Cosmopolitan.” Here Ben had the handling of all the wines and cigars, together with a chance to make a fat stake—which he did not miss. As it was against the rules to sell any liquor to the men on board, Ben hit upon the following plan for dispensing cordials: Into a barrel he poured a pail of water, with some lemons, and then filled it up with whiskey. This appetizing concoction he sold at the rate of ten dollars a canteen—which afforded a pretty comfortable profit. Before very long, however, it was discovered that the men on board had procured liquor in some way, and inquiries were set on foot to discover how. It came out, of course; but while Ben was pouring out the contents of the canteens, an assistant was filling them up again, so that the crew did not suffer for drink.

As the “Cosmopolitan” was passing Little Washington her pilot-house was blown off by the enemy’s shots. Ben was called up to take the wheel, and finding that the captain was not willing to stand by him in that perilous position, he turned the boat square around and headed her the other way. During this time he had saved about eleven thousand dollars in greenbacks and Confederate money. With this sum in his possession he was taken sick at Newberne, and there placed under the care of a physician who proved himself a villain. In one of his doses which he administered to Ben he placed poison, expecting to get rid of his patient in short order. An old negro woman, however, told Ben what he had taken, and by the prompt administration of powerful antidotes his life was saved. As soon as he had sufficiently recovered to leave his bed, Ben swore that he would have this doctor’s life. Meeting him shortly after on the street, he stopped him and said:

“You gave me poison, and do you know what I am going to do to you?”

“No,” faltered the man of pills, turning deathly pale.

“I am going to kill you!” was the laconic reply.

So saying, Ben drew his revolver and fired. But not wishing to take his life, the ball missed its mark, and entered the doctor’s leg instead of heart. The wound, however, was serious enough to necessitate the amputation of the limb—and so it cost him a leg to administer that dose of poison.

Not long after this adventure, Ben returned to New York. He was again ready to make a raise in whatever manner might present itself. He fell in with a choice gang of spirits, who had concocted to go into the bounty-jumping business, in the following way: Forty men pooled in ten dollars apiece at a certain smart saloon, then on the corner of Houston and Crosby streets, with the understanding that whoever succeeded first in jumping his bounty and reaching New York, should have the entire pile. The enlisting was to be done in Massachusetts. The crowd set forth, Ben agreeing to follow, and it is safe to say that a harder lot never struck the soil of the Old Bay State.

Nearly all enlisted, according to agreement, received their bounties, and then set to work to get away as best they might. Ben first endeavored to get on good terms with the officers by showing them his skill with the gloves, and even sent on for dumb-bells and clubs; but this game he very soon found wouldn’t work. The party, which came to be known as “The Forty Thieves,” were taken on to Boston under a guard equaling their own numbers—that is, one regular to each of the volunteers. No opportunity for escape offered itself on the journey, and it was not until the troops reached New York that Ben saw his way clear for leaving the service. Some of the men had jumped from the boat and taken their chances of being hit by the bullets. Hogan succeeded in eluding the guard upon their arrival in New York, and set out for a friend’s, to learn whether he had won the pool. He wore a red shirt, no coat nor vest, and nothing but the blue trowsers to stamp him as a volunteer.

As he was passing through the streets a policeman stopped him and took him into custody. Ben walked along quietly for several blocks, and after offering the “cop” three hundred dollars for his freedom, which offer was refused, he suddenly “gave him the foot” as they were passing a basement and sent him spinning through the door. He then took to his heels, but a general outcry was raised, and he was captured. The policemen took him to headquarters, where he told the justice that he was a fireman and had never seen the inside of an enlisting-office. The justice rebuked the officer for arresting a man without cause, but committed him to the keeping of the provost-marshal until it should be ascertained whether he was a volunteer or not.

The provost-marshal’s office was at the corner of Elm and Broome streets, and Ben, on the third night, succeeded in cutting his way through the bars. A too-officious policeman undertook to arrest him after he had reached the street, but Ben knocked him down at a blow, and passed on without further molestation.

That, for the time, ended our hero’s war experience. He had not figured conspicuously in any of the famous battles, but he had had a pretty lively time of it, and it occurred to him that New York was not, all things considered, the safest place for him to remain in longer. Like a good many other enterprising gentlemen in those days, Canada seemed to him the most inviting spot on the globe; and to Canada accordingly Ben made his way.

Of his experiences in the Dominion, which, though brief, were certainly racy, another chapter will treat.

CHAPTER V.

Ben in Canada—He goes West again—Adventures in Cincinnati, Nashville, and Louisville—How he Sold the Colored Troops—Sets out for the Oil Regions.

On his way to the Canadian border, Ben met with an interesting little adventure. He was accosted on the boat which took him to Albany by a gentlemanly appearing fellow, who showed him “a peculiar kind of a tobacco-box” which he had just invented. He showed how it worked—how very simple it was to open it—and to prove its simpleness, offered to bet Ben twenty-five dollars that he couldn’t open it in a given time.

It is almost needless to explain that this was the skin game which has since become familiar to everybody. It was fresher in those days, however, and as Ben had never seen the “racket,” he bet with the stranger. Of course he lost his money. But instead of getting mad about it, he resolved to get even by bleeding somebody else. He offered the man ten dollars more for the box, and having been shown how it operated, he put it in his pocket for future use.

On the train from Albany, Ben ran across a verdant merchant with plenty of money, took out the box, and in about ten minutes’ time had relieved him of a hundred dollars in cash. Then the merchant suggested that he would like to get his money back in some way, and proposed to act as “capper” while they fleeced somebody else. Hogan agreed to share with him, and before very long the first victim brought up a second one to be fleeced. From this individual the peculiar little tobacco-box won a hundred and fifty dollars. The capper pretended to sympathize with the loser, and Ben, meantime, strolled into the smoking-car, with all the money in his pocket. At the first station it became absolutely necessary for him to get off the train; and somehow he forgot all about dividing the hundred and fifty dollars with the capper.

Resuming his journey on the next train, our hero reached Kingston, Canada West, in good spirits. Almost upon the day of his arrival he stood on the street paring his finger-nails, when a mutton-chop whiskered Canadian, who was standing near by, drawled out with a very strong English accent:

“Ah—you Yankees are always picking your—ah—nails, and looking about for a chance—ah—to swindle somebody out of his—ah—money!”

“Vat vas dot you vas say?” demanded Ben, looking up from his nails, and assuming the German dialect; “I vas no Yankee—I vas a Deutcherman, yost comes ober!”

The Canadian looked in surprise, but Ben gave him undoubted proofs of his acquaintance with the German language, so that in the end he apologized for having mistaken the “Deutcherman” for a “blawsted Yankee.”

“Yaw,” continued Ben, “I vas a Deutcher lad, und I comes here to open a shimernasium!”

“A what?” asked the Canadian, looking puzzled.

“A shimernasium—mit clubs and dumber-bells und all dot!”

“O, a gymnasium, you mean,” said the Canadian, smiling. “Well, perhaps, I can be of some service to you.”

He was as good as his word, and introduced Ben to a number of citizens interested in physical culture, Lawyer Snooks among others. Through the influence of these gentlemen, Hogan opened a gymnasium in the skating rink. He found the Canadians, however, not over-generous in their patronage. An arrangement was finally made by which he was to instruct the students and others who came to him for five weeks without pay. At the end of that time he was to receive a benefit, and the proceeds, it was agreed, should be devoted to the improvement of the gymnasium. In good time this benefit came off, and a big success it was. Ben delivered a speech, and one of the priests spoke in warm praise of “Mr. Hogan, who had done so much for physical education.” The affair yielded five hundred dollars in gold.

After duly meditating upon the subject, it occurred to Ben that, instead of applying this money he had himself earned to a gymnasium, it would be a good deal wiser to apply it to the improvement of himself, and he accordingly left Kingston, intending, one day, to return. Up to the present writing, however, he has not thought proper to do so.

Passing through Rochester, Ben set his face toward the West. He spent a short time in Chicago and from there made his way to Cincinnati. In that city he soon became known. He was a teacher of boxing in the gymnasium at Fourth and Ray streets, and fulfilled an engagement at the Palace Varieties, doing the stone-breaking feat and heavy lifting.

A performance was got up for his benefit by Messrs. Ashure & Peterson, the agreement being that Ben was to receive the money for all tickets sold outside, while the box-office receipts were to go to the managers. Ben hired a dozen men, well known about town, giving them a hundred tickets each; and the result was that, although the house was packed, the box-office didn’t see any of the money. Hogan pocketed seven hundred and fifty dollars, and Messrs. Ashure & Peterson were thankful to get one hundred and fifty. It was at this performance that a stone weighing eight hundred pounds was broken on Hogan’s breast—a feat which has never been equaled.

Falling in with Bill Sparks, Ben went to Nashville at this time, and opened a show under canvas next to the St. Cloud Hotel. The attractions offered were the cannon-ball throwing of Sparks, and the feats of strength and sparring by Hogan. So successful did this show prove that the receipts averaged between fifty and sixty dollars a day. Ben, however, was not satisfied with this comfortable income, and he looked about for other sources of money-making. A fat thing turned up in the Provost-Marshal’s office—he got the handling of all the Government goods that passed through that official’s hands—and it was by no means an uncommon occurrence for Ben to pocket an odd thousand dollars fairly made.

Meantime, he had gained an extensive reputation as a boxer, and this he turned to good account by joining with Dan Striker in a glove-fight, professedly for five hundred dollars. Striker appeared as the champion of the Emerald Isle, and was announced as the “Irish Giant;” while Hogan became the champion of his native country, appearing on the bills as “Benedict, the German Hercules.” Intense excitement prevailed over the proposed contest. The city divided itself into two elements, the Irish population backing Striker, and the Germans swearing by “Benedict.” Allen’s New Theatre was secured for the exhibition, and when the night came the house was packed from pit to dome.

As the reader may readily imagine, the “fight” was pre-arranged, it being agreed that each man should score an equal number of knock-downs. Accordingly, the “Irish Giant” and the “German Hercules” each went down six times, and the excitement among the spectators became so great that words led to blows and a general fight ensued. Meantime, Ben and Striker cleared out of the theatre, carrying with them fourteen hundred dollars as the result of the venture.

While at Nashville, Ben also made a handsome sum by introducing certain famous gamblers to army officers, who were willing to pay liberally for the sake of opening wine with such sports. Whatever else they might have done while in the company of these agreeable persons is their business, not ours. Were the names to be given of these officers it would create a scandal which might injure their fair reputations, and so they are withheld.

We next find Hogan in Louisville. This was in the year 1865, just after the close of the war, and the city was filled with troops waiting to be mustered out. Among others was a negro brigade, which appeared to offer excellent material for our hero to work upon.

It happened that Ben ran across an agent from New York who had a large stock of advertising bills, made to look very much like a greenback. These were something new in those days, and had suggested a plan of operation to the agent. Ten dollars would have bought up the entire stock, which filled a good-sized satchel. With it he went to the quarters of the negro brigade, and offered to “stand in” with the officers if they would give him permission to exchange his “small bills” for the ones of larger denomination paid to the soldiers.

This offer being accepted, the agent stationed himself at the point where the negroes were paid off, and as they passed along in line, shouted out to them:

“Here you are, now. Anybody who wants small bills, step right up and get ’em changed!”

As the negroes had received their money in tens, twenties, &c., and as most of them wanted to use smaller amounts at once, they pressed about the accommodating stranger, crying:

“Yah you are, Massa, suah nuff! Done gwine me some o’ dat small change, mighty quick?”

He did give it to ’em “mighty quick.” The “greenbacks” were done up into packages of ten, twenty, fifty and a hundred dollars, and in an amazingly short time he had exchanged the entire lot of advertising notes for good money.

This little episode made it convenient for him to get out of the city. Doubtless the newspapers of Louisville will remember the affair, inasmuch as they devoted a good deal of space to it at the time. It may interest them to learn that the hero of the adventure set out at once for home, after having lost all his money to Ben before he had time to divide the spoils with the colored officers.

The job netted about twenty thousand dollars, and with this amount of money in his pocket Ben struck Chicago. Everybody was spending money freely in those days, but Hogan discounted the world. He “dropped” every dollar of his “boodle” in sixty days. How did he do it? That is more than I can tell. A hundred dollars for wine here, and five hundred for suppers there. Champagne suppers, faro—anything and everything which enters into the career of a high-toned sport when he is flush. That explains in part how the money went. Certain it is that it did go, in some manner, and at the end of the sixty days there was not a bank note left of the twenty thousand dollars.

It will be observed, therefore, that Ben added to the prosperity of Chicago by putting this money into rapid circulation. There would never have been any panic, you know, if everybody had spent money as freely. And so always goes ill-gotten gain.

His jolly spree in Chicago over, our hero set out for his old home, Syracuse. On the cars he ran across an acquaintance named Jim O’Neil, who hailed from Liverpool, a suburb of Syracuse.

“Where you bound for?” asked Ben.

“For the oil regions,” was the answer.

“The oil regions—where’s that?”

“Why, in Pennsylvania, of course. More life there than anywhere else in the world. Just the place for a fellow like you. Mints of money!”

This brief conversation set Ben to thinking. He made up his mind that the oil country was, in truth, just the place for a fellow like him, and he further resolved that he would go there as soon as he could.

He continued his journey to Syracuse, and a day or two after his arrival in that city fell in with a friend whom we will call Burke. This friend had just finished a term in the penitentiary, and like our hero, he was anxiously looking about for something to do. Burke wasn’t exactly a saint, as may be surmised from the fact that he had just got out of prison. He was, in fact, a tough nut, and a fellow who took any kind of risks for the sake of putting through a job.

Ben proposed to Burke that they should get out for the oil regions together.

“But I’m broke!” said Burke.

“Well, raise what you can,” answered Ben, “and I’ll do the same.”

Accordingly, that night the two adventurers put their wits to work, and the next day took the train for Buffalo. It need only be said that Burke improved the time so well that he carried with him a gold watch and chain. Whether some Christian gentleman made him a present of this, or whether he found it on the sidewalk, is not recorded. He had it, at all events, and with the money thus raised, the two friends reached Pit Hole, Pa., after encountering numerous adventures, and traveling the last forty miles on horse and foot.

CHAPTER VI.

First Appearance in the Oil Country—Dance-house in Pit Hole—French Kate—Babylon House—Fight with Bob Donnelly—His Explanation in Court of the Character of his House.

It was in this manner that Ben Hogan first entered the Oil Country—a region where he was destined to become more notorious, perhaps, than any other man who ever entered it.

His first adventure in Pit Hole was the meeting with Jim Linton, who carried with him a pair of boxing-gloves. Ben pretended not to know what they were; but having been taken around to “Heenan’s Cottage”—a famous resort for the sporting fraternity—he very soon showed that he could use his hands in a thoroughly scientific manner. This, of course, made him “solid” with the crowd, and he very soon became known.

Nothing better turning up, Ben joined Diefenbach’s show, to do general gymnastic business, while young Burke did a lively business in watches. The latter was so industrious that he came in often at the end of a night’s work with half a dozen “tickers” in his pockets.

Probably Pit Hole, at that time, was the wickedest place on the globe. The roughest and most desperate classes had centred there. Pistols and bowie-knives were the ordinary adornments worn by pretty nearly everybody. It was no unusual occurrence for half a dozen men to be killed in a day, and if twenty-four hours did happen to pass without somebody’s being shot, it set the inhabitants of the town to wondering what was the matter.

FIGHT BETWEEN HOGAN AND HOLLIDAY AT PITTHOLE, PA.

At the time of which I am writing, Fred Hill and Dean Wilson came to the town to give a sparring exhibition, and Hogan was trotted out as a “green Dutchman,” who would put on the gloves “just for fun.” Hill naturally supposed that he had a soft thing, but that idea left him by the time four rounds had been fought. He was so used up that he did not want any more of the “green Dutchman.”

From Pit Hole, Ben went to Oil City, where he worked in a variety show, and afterward in O’Hara and Hill’s Theatre, keeping order where nobody else could.

He next joined Capt. Smith, and played in Rouseville, Petroleum Centre, and Pit Hole, at which latter place Ben, who carried the “boodle,” lost nineteen hundred dollars at faro. That bursted the show, as the captain couldn’t make out where the profits were under such management.

Remaining in Pit Hole, Ben’s next venture was in the dance-hall and restaurant line, he becoming the business manager for a woman known as Em Fenton. She had conducted the place on a one-horse scale, but Ben ran the trade up to a hundred dollars a day.

No doubt Cal Wagner will remember his visit to the oil regions at this time, and the benefit which Hogan, in connection with Baldy Sauers, got up for him after his hard luck in Pit Hole.

Although Ben had made Em Fenton’s house his stopping place, he left there owing the woman six dollars. He next joined “French Kate,” a notorious character, with whom Ben was associated for a considerable time. This woman had served as a spy in the Confederate army and had been a companion of J. Wilkes Booth, Surrat and others. In connection with Kate and Fanny White he opened a first-class house, where liquors were served by pretty waiter girls, and where the patrons very soon became quite numerous.

At about this time occurred his fight with Holliday, formerly of Rochester. Although the stakes were only two hundred dollars, it is doubtful whether a more exciting contest was ever seen in the ring. Fully seven hundred persons were in attendance, women as well as men. Pistols and bowie-knives were as plentiful as cigars, and it took a good deal of courage to face such a crowd in a prize ring. Just before the fight, French Kate called Ben to her side—he was then her acknowledged champion, and said:

“Ben, if you lose this fight you shall cease to be a friend of mine!”

Our hero went into the ring, therefore, with a double incentive for winning. After a pretty woman had said what French Kate did to a fellow, it would have been enough to make a parson fight for all he was worth. Marsh Elliott and John Sweeney acted as seconds for Ben. Seven rounds were fought, at the end of which Holliday threw up the sponge, and Hogan was declared the winner. He thus got the purse, and also preserved his friendship with Kate.

After the fight was over, Marsh Elliott began to do some heavy blowing, asserting that he could furnish a man who “could knock the daylights out of Ben Hogan.” This sort of talk really had reference to himself, and as Ben was perfectly willing to try conclusions with the man, he invited him to step up whenever he pleased. But Elliott had no idea of meeting Hogan in a fair fight. He shot at him through a window in the hopes of killing our hero, and failing in this attempt, was forced into a fight the next day. Ben disposed of him in four rounds, breaking his nose and giving him a terrible using up. He then secured Ben’s arrest, but the tables were turned in court, and he was himself fined twenty-five dollars while Hogan was released.

On the very next day, as Ben was sitting in his parlor, four men entered the room, with the avowed intention of killing him. Hogan arose and said:

“I am unarmed, and only one against four. Give a man some sort of a show for his life. Let me have one revolver, and I’ll take my chances against you all!”

Just as these words were uttered, and most fortunately for Ben, a number of friends dropped in to see him, and the would-be murderers cleared out.

The attempt to make way with Hogan did not end here. A job was put up by which he was to be induced to engage in a fight with one “Stonehouse Jack,” with the understanding that the latter was to kill him in the fracas. This little plan fell through, however, as Ben met the crowd, and at the muzzle of a revolver made them lay down their arms. Believing his life to be in constant peril, Ben appealed to the authorities, who, knowing the character of the men he had to deal with, told him that he would be justified in shooting any one of them who might attack him. Acting upon this assurance, he fired at Stonehouse Jack, as that worthy was coming out of a dance hall. Unfortunately for society, the ball missed its mark and Jack escaped.

Striking out for fresh fields, Ben went to Babylon, where, in conjunction with French Kate, he opened a first-class sporting house. Babylon was a peculiar place, and fully as wicked as the ancient city of that name. There were only eight houses in the town, and six of these were gambling houses. The inhabitants were not over-pious, as may be imagined; and a more desperate set it would be difficult to find.

Ben went on in advance, and fitted up the house in two day’s time, doing pretty much all of the work himself. He then telegraphed for some friends, and they set out in a hay-wagon. That was a memorable night in Babylon when these sports arrived and Ben’s place was opened. The whole were pretty well primed with wine, and they made the town ring with their songs and laughter. Crowds of people from the neighboring country gathered about the wagon. The boys shouted and the men shouted back. When the whole had entered the house, a grand rush was made for admission. Ben sold them tickets till the place was jammed, and than stood at the door, with revolver in hand, to prevent any more from attempting to enter.

During the nine months which Ben spent in Babylon, adventures crowded one another in such rapid succession, that I can only touch upon some of the more important ones.

Among Ben’s rivals in business were the Shay Brothers, who succeeded, on one occasion, in getting away his musicians. It was a Saturday night, the place was crowded, but it was impossible for the crowd to be jolly without music.

Ben went around to the rival house, entered the bar-room, and saw his band playing away at their posts. He took one square look at them, and then, suddenly seizing a champagne bottle in each hand, he let them fly at the heads of the musicians.

Lightning is supposed to travel a greased pole at a pretty lively rate, but the way those musical chaps vanished before Ben’s bottles beat any lightning all out of time. The leader wasted a couple of shots in firing at Hogan, and that was all the resistance that was offered. Naturally enough, the sight of champagne bottles traveling through the air without any fixed destination, threw the whole place into an uproar. Ben had entered with the intention of clearing out the house—and he proceeded to do it without any waste of time. A stray blow with a bottle broke Tommy Shay’s arm. Then Ben knocked over boxes, and kegs, and barrels, sent the glasses spinning around in every direction, broke everything that there was to break, and closed up the place in amazingly short order.

The Shays got out an indictment against Ben for this little proceeding, but when he met them with a counter charge of selling liquor without a license, of keeping a disorderly house, and various other offenses, they concluded to let the matter drop.

It was at about this time, also, that Ben had his fight with Bob Donnelly. Some of the sporting papers talked of this as a “snide” affair, and refused to give either of the men credit for the battle. As a matter of fact it was an exceedingly hot fight, occupying thirty-six rounds, and being won by Hogan only after a tough struggle. The contest took place near Fort Erie, and was witnessed by only twelve men on a side—a fact which led the papers to doubt its genuineness.

Keeping as many sports as Ben did in his place it became necessary, at times, to devise some means of entertaining them—for Babylon was not a very big town, and the sights were limited. On one occasion Ben enlivened Sunday by getting up a hurdle-race, which was contested by girls in short skirts. Of course a big crowd turned out; the girls never troubled themselves about the purse of one hundred dollars which had been offered (on paper), and Ben did a flourishing business over the bar.

At another time he dressed up fifteen of the boys in girl’s clothing, mounted them upon horses, and, acting himself as the general of this feminine army, made a week’s tour of the oil regions. Every town that was then of any importance was visited, and it need hardly be said that the company picked up a good deal of stray money.