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ii6 THE HOUSE THAT SHADOWS BUILT
she invaded the room, they sprang to their feet and hands went to hips, for they thought that it was the police. Before she finished with them, they wished it had been the police.
Mrs. Kaufmann took her son from the place, bore him home. Next day, a council of his mature relatives put down on him the screws of old-fashioned Jewish family discipline. They ruled that he couldn’t be trusted in a tough district. He must keep away from the Penny Arcade. Morris Kohn got him a job at ten dollars a week in the basement of a lace house, and Mrs. Kaufmann confiscated his latchkey. For nearly three years he served like a convict, nailing boxes in that basement; and, spite of false promises, he still made only ten dollars a week. So he came to Adolph Zukor, pleading for parole. On his promise of strict virtue and propriety, Zukor employed him as house manager, ticket taker, general factotum.
He was a furious, instantaneous hit. Within six months he had become perhaps the most popular character in the district; known by his first name to every policeman, bartender, gangster, and ward politician. He arrived just in time. South Union Square and the abutting stretch of East Fourteenth Street were rising to the hectic climax of their impermanent little day as a cheap tenderloin. Tom Sharkey’s saloon and dance hall, a block to the east, was drawing the sailor custom from the old Bowery. In its lee upsprung a dozen resorts as