Yellow Kid" Weil

Hannh and Hogg’s Saloon, Barney Bertsch’s Crystal Palace, and other Loop barrooms were the hangouts for the “sporting crowd.” This included con men, prize fighters, wrestlers, jockeys, bookmakers, and some actors, not to mention a few safecrackers and stick-up men.

It was but natural that I should get acquainted with most of them. Here I met John Strosnider, a well-known swindler, who later worked for me, and also Old John Snarley, the original gold-brick man. Snarley seemed to like me particularly,

I never could understand why he didn’t give up. The greater part of his life had been spent in prison. He was known to everybody as a man who was “stir-crazy.” Indeed, he was in so many prisons that he developed a great interest in them.

Many years later Fred Buckminster and I had just completed a deal in Missoula, Montana, and were driving out of there as fast as we could. Old John Snarley was with us. We had heard that Montana had just built a new state prison.

“Boys,” Old John proposed, “let’s drive by and see what that new pen looks like.”

“I should think,” growled Buck, “that you’ve seen enough penitentiaries to last you the rest of your life.”

“Besides,” I said, “if we go that way, it will be a hundred miles out of our way.”

“Just the same,” Snarley insisted, “I’d like to see what it looks like. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be sent there some day.”

“What do you say, Joe?”

“All right,” I agreed. “We’ll humor him. Besides, if they’re looking for us, they would hardly look for us near the penitentiary.”

We drove one hundred miles out of our way so that John Snarley could see what the penitentiary looked like. We parked opposite it for fifteen minutes while he gazed admiringly at the structure.

Tim North’s fight scheme had been copied by numerous other con men. Soon there were similar setups in fixed towns throughout the Middle West. One of the most active was operated by Fred Ventnor with thirteen associates, at Council Bluffs, Iowa. Hundreds of con men, prize fighters, and wrestlers were steering victims to these setups. Ventnor and his thirteen associates were the first to be indicted.

The law hadn’t reached me yet and I decided it would be a good idea to stay out of the fights until the heat cooled off. My wife was urging me - as she always was - to get into something legitimate.

One day I saw my chance. I met a couple of fellows who had the makings of a machine for vending chewing-gum. They offered to sell me the dies for $200. I accepted the offer. I knew an inventor named Davis and I took the dies to him. He succeeded in building a very practical vending machine with two plungers of cold rolled steel and nickel. He said he could turn out as many machines as I wanted for $5.00 each.

My wife was very enthusiastic. “Joe,” she declared, “this is your chance to be a real business man.”

I agreed, and started my new business with every intention of going straight. I rented a suite of offices in the National Life building and organized a company I called, “The National Gum Company.”

I had Davis build me several vending machines, which I placed in my display room. I got an idea if I offered something free with each package of chewing-gum I could sell a lot more. At the Far East Trading Company I bought a wide variety of inexpensive but nicelooking articles, to be offered as premiums. These were also put on display in my office. I had them all photographed and made up a nice premium catalog. As far as I know this was the first time that premium coupons had ever been offered as an inducement to buy merchandise. As I had planned, every package of chewing-gum sold through the vending machines would contain a coupon. A certain number of coupons would bring the customer a free article listed in the catalog. This system of premium coupons was later widely used for every sort of merchandise from soap to silverware.

I contacted four Chicago chewing-gum companies and arranged to buy gum from them. I was now all set to start, except for financing the machines. I decided the best way to do this was to vend the gum through district managers. I inserted ads in all the newspapers for men to manage the vending machines.

The response to the ads was overwhelming. I decided not to sign anybody up until I was ready to operate. Every time an applicant called, I told him:

“You’re a little late, but if you’ll leave your name and address, we’ll get in touch with you as soon as there is a vacancy.”

Then I explained the proposition:

“You will be required to put up $120 cash bond. That will be a deposit on twenty machines at $6.00 each. We’ll assign a territory to you where the machines may be put up. Each machine will have $50 in it when the gum has all been emptied out. You make a profit of $20 every time a machine empties. Do you think that would interest you?”

I signed about 2,500 men to contracts. Then I got an idea. I formed the National Association of Chewing-Gum Manufacturers. All the gum companies in Chicago, except Wrigley, joined it. The Association was given exclusive use of Mintleaf gum for the vending machines and all the participating companies agreed to give the Association first call on its gum products.

By the time I was ready to call in the men I had signed up, I was in a position to exercise a good measure of control over all the smaller chewing-gum manufacturers. I had plans to put the vending machines out all over the country.

My own name had become so well known - and so unfavorably - that when I entered this venture I used the name James R. Warrington. But the police had been keeping an eye on me, particularly since Snarley had found out about my new business.

Any day that Snarley had nothing else to do, which was often, he and Strosnider dropped in to see me. They hung around for hours. Snarky and Strosnider were a good deal hotter than I was.

I’m sure the police checked up on every detail of my enterprise. The only thing they could find that might be called a con-game was my deal with the district managers.

I had held off on these men because I needed the machines before the deal could be completed. And it was a very good thing I did.

One day Snarley came over early. He said, “Joe, you don’t suppose the cops have got a dictaphone planted in here, do you?”

“No,” I replied. “Why should they?

He pointed to a spot on the wall just above my chair. A bit of plaster had peeled off. “What’s making your plaster come off?”

I got up and examined the plaster more closely. It was a dictaphone all right. The wiring had been cleverly concealed, but I was able to follow it. It led straight into the office of the superintendent of the building.

“Well,” I breathed to Snarley, “I haven’t done anything wrong this time. They haven’t got a thing on me. I’m on the level this time and I’m going ahead. But you and Strosnider better quit hanging around. It gives the place a bad name.”

But I had made that decision too late. Snarley and Strosnider quit coming, but the police were convinced that I was getting ready to make a big haul. I had signed up 2,500 men and each would post a cash bond of $120. That would be a total of $300,000. The police could not believe I was going to use that much money legitimately. I couldn’t blame them, in view of my past activities.

One day Tom Guerin, brother of Eddie Guerin - the notorious escapee from Devil’s Island - dropped into the office.

“Joe,” he said, “I was just talking to Inspector Petey O’Brien. He told me to give you a message. He said. ‘Tell Joe not to take any money.’”

Petey O’Brien was then Chief of Detectives. He had investigated my proposition and could see that it might be on the level. On the other hand he could also see where it might cause me a lot of trouble. O’Brien was a square shooter. He was warning me while there was still time. The chances are that if I had continued I would have been arrested and charged with operating a confidence game!

I knew that Petey knew what he was talking about. There just wasn’t any sense in bucking the odds when the cards were already stacked against me.

One of the larger companies which had signed up with me took over the Mintleaf patent and began to manufacture Mintleaf gum. The National Association of Chewing-Gum Manufacturers was allowed to die, although the Association was later resurrected and now flourishes as a group devoted to the advancement of the industry.

Mintleaf was the flavor that later became so popular as Wrigley’s Spearmint. I heard that the Wrigley company paid $2,000,000 for the formula.

Shortly afterwards, premiums were offered with various sorts of merchandise and the premium coupon idea has been widely used ever since.

At any rate, even though I was prevented from going into a legitimate enterprise, the ideas I evolved apparently were sound, for they were widely used.

This episode was sound proof of the old adage: “A man is known by the company he keeps.” I am convinced that the presence of Snarley and Strosnider around the office caused the police to intervene in the most legitimate undertaking of my career!

On more than one occasion I have had cause to regret that I was acquainted with criminals who had records.

The Butterine Kid was one of them. I don’t know what his right name was. He was a small-time racketeer whom I had met casually in a Loop saloon. Forty years ago oleomargarine was known as “butterine.” The manufacturers were not allowed to color it, though it was used widely as a butter substitute.

The Butterine Kid made his living by buying butterine, adding color to it, and peddling it in pound squares to the smaller shops and from house to house. He sold it as pure creamery butter at less than the current market price of butter.

The Butterine Kid’s racket afforded him a living, but not much more. At its worst, the crookedness of his scheme was petty. Occasionally I met him on the street, sweating as he pushed his cart of butterine from house to house and from shop to shop.

Far worse than his butterine racket was the Kid’s habit of shooting with loaded dice. No matter who you were or where he met you, he would try to inveigle you into a crap game in which you didn’t stand a chance. On a number of occasions when I met him he was broke, and I befriended him. I was to live to regret it.

With an indictment for participating in the fight racket hanging over my head, I did not engage in any business at the time. However, I had been around to numerous furniture dealers to pick up articles for our home. In those days, a piano was essential to every well-appointed home and I began to look around for one. I finally bought an oak upright for $350.

Some years earlier when I had been a partner in the Get-Rich-Quick Bank, it had been my custom to eat at Metzger’s restaurant on Monroe Street. It was a combination bar and café, a glass partition separating the two sections.

On the walls of the restaurant hung numerous enlarged photographs of two coffee plantations which Metzger owned at Jalapa and Vera Cruz in Mexico. He served coffee from these plantations and had a quantity for sale in his restaurant at three pounds for a dollar.

The coffee, which had a fine flavor, was one of the drawing cards. His place was also noted for its rare wines; many of the big financiers dined there regularly.

One day shortly after I had bought the piano I dropped in, for I used to enjoy the coffee. I glanced around at the pictures I had seen so many times before, but it was only then that an idea bloomed. As soon as I had finished my meal I sought out the restaurateur.

“My name is Richard E. Dorian.”

Metzger was a heavy-set, distinguished looking fellow. He wore a pince-nez and a well-tailored business suit. I knew he was wealthy.

“Glad to know you,” he smiled, shaking hands. “I’ve seen you here but never learned your name. What can I do for you?”

“I’m interested in your coffee plantations,” I replied.

“In what way?”

“The output, primarily. Also I was wondering where you dispose of your coffee.”

“As a matter of fact,” he replied, “I’ve done very little with it. Except for the small amount I use here in the restaurant and sell to my customers, I haven’t done anything. I haven’t exploited the plantations because I haven’t found anybody who wants to buy raw coffee beans. And I know little about the business myself.”

“Then perhaps we can get together. Would you be interested in leasing your plantations?”

“Perhaps. What’s your proposition?”

“How would you like to have somebody take over the plantations and operate them so you would have nothing to worry about and still get a good revenue?”

“Sounds interesting,” said Metzger. “You have a plan?”

“Yes. As you know, there is plenty of good coffee already on the market. Just to bring out another brand would not be anything new. Furthermore, to build up such a new brand would require a great deal of capital - for advertising and promotion.”

“That’s correct.”

“I have very little capital,” I continued, “but I do know how to promote and I have ideas. Suppose that we produce coffee that compared favorably with all the better brands, but gave something free in addition - we ought to clean up.”

“It all depends,” said Metzger, “on what you give away. Do you have something in mind?”

My eyes roved about the room. They lighted on a piano in the corner.

“Suppose,” I replied “we give away pianos. That ought to get us plenty of customers.”

“Pianos?” he exclaimed. For a few moments he stared at me, as though wondering if he had been wasting his time on a lunatic. “Man, are you crazy?”

“Of course not. Don’t you think pianos would be good premiums?”

“Certainly. But you apparently don’t know the value of a piano.”

“Yes, I believe I do. The fact that they are so costly is all the more reason why they would be good premiums and would attract a lot of customers.”

“All you say is true,” Metzger admitted, about ready to tear his hair. “But would you mind telling me how you plan to make money on such a scheme?”

“Isn’t it reasonable to suppose,” I returned, “that people would pay a few cents more for a pound of coffee if they knew they were going to get something for nothing?”

He reflected. “Yes, I guess it is,” he said. “I think most people will go to great lengths to get something for nothing.”

Now he was thinking. I already know a great deal about how far the average person would go to get something for nothing. But my task was to sell Metzger the same idea. “I believe you’re right,” I went on. “Here is my idea: we will pack a really good blend of coffee and sell it three pounds for a dollar. With each purchase of three pounds, there will be a premium coupon. When the purchaser has 150 of these coupons, he will be entitled to a piano absolutely free.”

“But that means buying 450 pounds of coffee,” Metzger objected. “That’s more than the average person uses in ten years.”

“True,” I agreed. “But, as you know, the cost of the average piano is more than $150. A family could get all the coffee it needs for a long time and still have a piano. Some people will buy the coffee - even if they don’t use it - just to get the piano.”

“There’s one thing you haven’t explained to me,” he frowned. “How are you going to give these pianos away when one of them costs more than the entire amount you’ll get for the coffee?”

“I can get the pianos wholesale. But I need to get the coffee at a low price. That’s where you come in.”

We discussed this at some length. Finally Metgzer agreed to let me take over both his plantations and put them into production at once. As I had it figured, the coffee would actually cost me less than one cent a pound. Metzger, for purposes of negotiation and advertising, agreed to permit me to say I owned the plantations.

Having settled this detail, I went to see a music dealer. At his place, a few days earlier, I had seen a cheap piano for sale. Now I examined it again. It was no different from the standard instrument, except that the wood was inexpensive scrub oak. However, only discriminating people would have noticed it. The retail price was $150.

“Suppose I wanted to buy these in wholesale lots,” I told the dealer. “Do you suppose I could get them at a reasonable figure?”

“You could get them for less than a hundred dollars,” he said. “They are manufactured by Biddle Brothers in Rochester, New York.”

I gathered up a few hundred dollars in good money and wrapped it around $5,000 in boodle. Then I went to Rochester and called on Biddle Brothers. I talked to them for several days and they finally agreed to furnish me with their pianos for $45 each. I convinced them that my demand would be so great that they agreed to sell me their entire output.

I showed them the packages of boodle I carried to convince them I had capital. But I explained that this would be needed to get my campaign started, and they didn’t press me for an advance deposit. They shipped two of the pianos to me in Chicago to be used for display.

Back in Chicago my plans began to shape up. I knew of a coffee roaster on River Street named Martin. I had used his coffee and I knew he was an expert blender and roaster. I gave him the details of my plan and he became enthusiastic, especially after he had seen pictures of the plantations in Mexico.

“It’s only fair to tell you,” I said, “that I am doing all this without much capital. But I am so sure that it will go that I am counting on the backing of a few trustworthy men like yourself.”

“You can count on me,” returned Martin. “If you need credit to get your plant in operation, refer to me.”

I made a deal with Martin to blend, roast, and package all of my coffee. It was to be put up in three-pound canisters. The beans would be shipped from the Mexican plantations to Chicago. Martin would grade them, select the proper blends, and supervise the roasting and packaging.

But I had to have a plant. After looking around, I found a millwright building at 14 North May Street that was for sale. The owner’s name was Morgan.

I proposed to buy the building from Morgan but frankly admitted I hadn’t the cash to pay for it. In my negotiations, I used the names of Metzger and Martin freely. After he had checked with these two, Morgan was ready to sign a contract.

I was to take possession of the building at once; no cash would be required for the first six months. Thereafter monthly payments would take care of the balance. Some remodeling was necessary and Morgan lent me the cash to have this done.

I arranged for the remodeling of the first floor, which became my office and display room. Martin determined how the remainder of the building was to be, since he was the coffee expert. He also advised me what sort of machinery to buy. This was bought and installed on credit, with the help of Martin and Morgan.

The office and display room were outfitted by Zimmerman, a prominent Loop firm. The display room was very attractive and eyecatching. There we had the two pianos from Biddle Brothers on display.

While the rebuilding was going on, I devoted my time to planning a campaign. I had a trademark and letterhead designed. It was in colors and showed a picture of Uncle Sam carrying two large cans of coffee.

We discussed the merchandising at some length. It was decided to adopt the slogan: “From plantation to consumer. Eliminate the middleman’s profit.” Then, for the premium offer: “No breakfast is complete without coffee. No home is complete without a piano.”

The advertising campaign I planned was to get us off to a good start. I would take space in leading newspapers throughout the country. A full page was planned for The Chicago Tribune. I figured that once the sale of our coffee had gained momentum, it wouldn’t be necessary to advertise. I was confident Martin would pack a good blend that would advertise itself. And the free piano would be a big inducement.

Most families with modest incomes, however, were buying pianos on the instalment plan - generally, ten dollars a month. Few of them would be able to put out $150, even if a free piano was involved. I decided to meet this situation to compete with the instalment plan. As soon as a purchaser had acquired ten premium coupons, that is had bought ten dollars worth of coffee, the piano would be shipped to his home, with the understanding that he would be required to turn in at least ten coupons each month thereafter until a total of 150 coupons had been remitted. Then the piano was his to keep.

Actually what this amounted to was that any family could buy a piano, ten dollars down and ten dollars a month for fifteen months, with all the coffee they could use, free. It was an appealing proposition, entirely legal, and I didn’t see how it could miss fire. Neither did my backers, Metzger, Martin, and Morgan.

Everything had been arranged except the actual exploiting of the plantations. Martin lent me $2,000 to go to Mexico to inspect them and get them to production at top capacity.

My wife, who had constantly pleaded with me to stay in some legitimate business, was very happy. I was, too. Once again I thought the future held great promise and that I was through with confidence games.

One day in a Loop saloon, when I stopped for a glass of beer, I ran into the Butterine Kid. He asked what I was doing and I told him. He hit me for a ten dollar loan. I was feeling pretty good and let him have it.

One morning a few days before my scheduled departure for Mexico, Morgan was in the office. He was well pleased with the way things were shaping up. He suggested we all get together for a conference later in the day.

“Splendid!” I agreed. “I have to go down in the Loop to see the printer. Suppose you call Metzger and Martin and arrange for them to come over.”

This was agreed, and I left for my meeting with the printer. I was gone for perhaps three hours. When I walked into the office an irate group faced me. My three backers, Morgan, Metzger and Martin, were pacing the floor. In the corner sat an unhappy, abject figure, the Butterine Kid.

The three men faced me and all began to talk at once. “Come in, Mr. Richard E. Dorian!” Martin said sarcastically. “Alias Joe Weil, alias the Yellow Kid.”

“So it’s all a skin game,” said Metzger. “Using my plantations for a skin game!” Morgan’s remarks are unprintable. He had spent about $120,000 for remodeling and for equipment. He was in a rage, and if I had waited for him to get his hands on me, he probably would have torn me apart.

But I didn’t wait. I didn’t try to explain. Even though this was another time I had a legitimate scheme, I knew that they wouldn’t believe me. My reputation was even bigger than my plans. So I turned and left, and that ended my career in the coffee business.

I later learned what had happened:

Martin, Metzger, and Morgan had gathered in the office for the meeting. They were waiting for me when the Butterine Kid breezed in. He was there, he told me later, to borrow $20.

“Where’s the boss?” he asked.

“He’ll be back soon,” Martin replied. “Have a seat.”

The Butterine Kid sat down, but he was a restless type. He put his hand in his pocket and it closed over some dice.

“Say,” he said, “would any of you fellows like to roll ’em while we’re waiting?”

Metzger and Morgan weren’t interested but Martin agreed to shoot with the Kid to pass the time. The Kid pulled out his dice and they began to roll. Martin lost consistently. The Butterine Kid was getting quite a roll, when Martin, who was no fool, thought that the dice he was shooting with seemed to be a little different from those the Kid was using. The next time the Kid rolled ’em Martin reached out and grabbed the dice. He discovered at once that they were mis-spotted.

“I was playing to be sociable,” he growled. “I don’t like to be cheated.”

He took his money back and clipped the Kid on the jaw.

“You can’t do that to me,” the latter whined as he got up off the floor. “Just wait till Joe gets back.”

“Joe? Who is Joe?”

“Joe Weil. He’s the boss here, ain’t he?”

That was the tip-off. The three men began to question him, and soon learned my real identity, which they had not suspected before. They backed him into a corner and made him tell everything he knew about me. So when I showed up I didn’t stand a chance.