known as the Three Points.
Pugsy said: "Dere's been fuss'n going on down where I live. Dude
Dawson's mad at Spider Reilly, and now de Table Hills is layin' for de
T'ree Points, to soak it to 'em. Dat's right."
He then retired to his outer fastness, yielding further details jerkily
and with the distrait air of one whose mind is elsewhere.
Skilfully extracted and pieced together, these details formed
themselves into the following typical narrative of East Side life.
There were four really important gangs in New York at this time. There
were other less important institutions besides, but these were little
more than mere friendly gatherings of old boyhood chums for purposes of
mutual companionship. They might grow into formidable organizations in
time, but for the moment the amount of ice which good judges declared
them to cut was but small. They would "stick up" an occasional wayfarer
for his "cush," and they carried "canisters" and sometimes fired them
off, but these things do not signify the cutting of ice. In matters
political there were only four gangs which counted, the East Side, the
Groome Street, the Three Points and the Table Hill. Greatest of these,
by virtue of their numbers, were the East Side and the Groome Street,
the latter presided over at the time of this story by Mr. Bat Jarvis.
These two were colossal, and, though they might fight each other, were
immune from attack at the hands of the rest.
But between the other gangs, and especially between the Table Hill and
the Three Points, which were much of a size, warfare raged as
frequently as among the Republics of South America. There had always
been bad blood between the Table Hill and the Three Points. Little
events, trifling in themselves, had always occurred to shatter friendly
relations just when there seemed a chance of their being formed. Thus,
just as the Table Hillites were beginning to forgive the Three Points
for shooting the redoubtable Paul Horgan down at Coney Island, a Three
Pointer injudiciously wiped out a Table Hillite near Canal Street. He
pleaded self-defense, and in any case it was probably mere
thoughtlessness, but nevertheless the Table Hillites were ruffled.
That had been a month or so back. During that month things had been
simmering down, and peace was just preparing to brood when there
occurred the incident alluded to by Pugsy, the regrettable falling out
between Dude Dawson and Spider Reilly.
To be as brief as possible, Dude Dawson had gone to spend a happy
evening at a dancing saloon named Shamrock Hall, near Groome Street.
Now, Shamrock Hall belonged to a Mr. Maginnis, a friend of Bat Jarvis,
and was under the direct protection of that celebrity. It was,
therefore, sacred ground, and Mr. Dawson visited it in a purely private
and peaceful capacity. The last thing he intended was to spoil the
harmony of the evening.
Alas for the best intentions! Two-stepping clumsily round the room - for
he was a poor, though enthusiastic, dancer - Dude Dawson collided with
and upset a certain Reddy Davis and his partner. Reddy Davis was a
member of the Three Points, and his temper was the temper of a
red-headed man. He "slugged" Mr. Dawson. Mr. Dawson, more skilful at
the fray than at the dance, joined battle willingly, and they were
absorbed in a stirring combat, when an interruption occurred. In the
far corner of the room, surrounded by admiring friends, sat Spider
Reilly, monarch of the Three Points. He had noticed that there was a
slight disturbance at the other side of the hall, but had given it
little attention till the dancing ceasing suddenly and the floor
emptying itself of its crowd, he had a plain view of Mr. Dawson and Mr.
Davis squaring up at each other for the second round.
We must assume that Mr. Reilly was not thinking of what he did, for his
action was contrary to all rules of gang etiquette. In the street it
would have been perfectly legitimate, even praiseworthy, but in a
dance-hall under the protection of a neutral power it was unpardonable.
What he did was to produce his revolver, and shoot the unsuspecting Mr.
Dawson in the leg. Having done which, he left hurriedly, fearing the
wrath of Bat Jarvis.
Mr. Dawson, meanwhile, was attended to and helped home. Willing
informants gave him the name of his aggressor, and before morning the
Table Hill camp was in a ferment. Shooting broke out in three places,
though there were no casualties.
When the day dawned there existed between the two gangs a state of war
more bitter than any in their record, for this time it was chieftain
who had assaulted chieftain, Royal blood had been spilt.
Such was the explanation of the lull in the campaign against
_Peaceful Moments_. The new war had taken the mind of Spider
Reilly and his warriors off the paper and its affairs for the moment,
much as the unexpected appearance of a mad bull would make a man forget
that he had come out snipe-shooting.
At present there had been no pitched battle. As was usual between the
gangs, war had broken out in a somewhat tentative fashion at first.
There had been skirmishes by the wayside, but nothing more. The two
armies were sparring for an opening.
* * * * *
Smith was distinctly relieved at the respite, for necessitating careful
thought. This was the defection of Kid Brady.
The Kid's easy defeat of Cyclone Dick Fisher had naturally created a
sensation in sporting circles. He had become famous in a night. It was
not with surprise, therefore, that Smith received from his fighting
editor the information that he had been matched against one Eddie Wood,
whose fame outshone even that of the late Cyclone.
The Kid, a white man to the core, exhibited quite a feudal loyalty to
the paper which had raised him from the ruck and placed him on the road
to eminence.
"Say the word," he said, "and I'll call it off. If you feel you need me
around here, Mr. Smith, say so, and I'll side-step Eddie."
"Comrade Brady," said Smith with enthusiasm, "I have had occasion
before to call you sport. I do so again. But I'm not going to stand in
your way. If you eliminate this Comrade Wood, they will have to give
you a chance against Jimmy Garvin, won't they?"
"I guess that's right," said the Kid. "Eddie stayed nineteen rounds
against Jimmy, and, if I can put him away, it gets me clear into line
with Jim, and he'll have to meet me."
"Then go in and win, Comrade Brady. We shall miss you. It will be as if
a ray of sunshine had been removed from the office. But you mustn't
throw a chance away."
"I'll train at White Plains," said the Kid, "so I'll be pretty near in
case I'm wanted."
"Oh, we shall be all right," said Smith, "and if you win, we'll bring
out a special number. Good luck, Comrade Brady, and many thanks for
your help."
* * * * *
John, when he arrived at the office and learned the news, was for
relying on their own unaided efforts.
"And, anyway," he said, "I don't see who else there is to help us. You
could tell the police, I suppose," he went on doubtfully.
Smith shook his head.
"The New York policeman, Comrade John, is, like all great men, somewhat
peculiar. If you go to a New York policeman and exhibit a black eye, he
is more likely to express admiration for the handiwork of the citizen
responsible for the same than sympathy. No; since coming to this city I
have developed a habit of taking care of myself, or employing private
help. I do not want allies who will merely shake their heads at Comrade
Reilly and his merry men, however sternly. I want someone who, if
necessary, will soak it to them good."
"Sure," said John. "But who is there now the Kid's gone?"
"Who else but Comrade Jarvis?" said Smith.
"Jarvis? Bat Jarvis?"
"The same. I fancy that we shall find, on enquiry, that we are ace
high with him. At any rate, there is no harm in sounding him. It is
true that he may have forgotten, or it may be that it is to Comrade
Brown alone that he is - "
"Who's Brown?" asked John.
"Our late stenographer," explained Smith. "A Miss Brown. She
entertained Comrade Jarvis' cat, if you remember. I wonder what has
become of her. She has sent in three more corking efforts on the
subject of Broster Street, but she gives no address. I wish I knew
where she was. I'd have liked for you to meet her."
CHAPTER XXII
A GATHERING OF CAT SPECIALISTS
"It will probably be necessary," said Smith, as they set out for
Groome Street, "to allude to you, Comrade John, in the course of this
interview, as one of our most eminent living cat-fanciers. You have
never met Comrade Jarvis, I believe? Well, he is a gentleman with just
about enough forehead to prevent his front hair getting inextricably
blended with his eyebrows, and he owns twenty-three cats, each with a
leather collar round its neck. It is, I fancy, the cat note which we
shall have to strike to-day. If only Comrade Brown were with us, we
could appeal to his finer feelings. But he has seen me only once and
you never, and I should not care to bet that he will feel the least
particle of dismay at the idea of our occiputs getting all mussed up
with a black-jack. But when I inform him that you are an English
cat-fancier, and that in your island home you have seventy-four fine
cats, mostly Angoras, that will be a different matter. I shall be
surprised if he does not fall on your neck."
They found Mr. Jarvis in his fancier's shop, engaged in the
intellectual occupation of greasing a cat's paws with butter. He looked
up as they entered, and then resumed his task.
"Comrade Jarvis," said Smith, "we meet again. You remember me?"
"Nope," said Mr. Jarvis promptly.
Smith was not discouraged.
"Ah!" he said tolerantly, "the fierce rush of New York life! How it
wipes from the retina to-day the image impressed on it but yesterday.
Is it not so, Comrade Jarvis?"
The cat-expert concentrated himself on his patient's paws without
replying.
"A fine animal," said Smith, adjusting his monocle. "To what
particular family of the _Felis Domestica_ does that belong? In
color it resembles a Neapolitan ice more than anything."
Mr. Jarvis' manner became unfriendly.
"Say, what do youse want? That's straight, ain't it? If youse want to
buy a boid or a snake, why don't youse say so?"
"I stand corrected," said Smith; "I should have remembered that time
is money. I called in here partly in the hope that, though you only met
me once - on the stairs of my office, you might retain pleasant
recollections of me, but principally in order that I might make two
very eminent cat-fanciers acquainted. This," he said, with a wave of
his hand in the direction of John, "is Comrade Maude, possibly the
best known of English cat-fanciers. Comrade Maude's stud of Angoras is
celebrated wherever the English language is spoken."
Mr. Jarvis's expression changed. He rose, and, having inspected John
with silent admiration for a while, extended a well-buttered hand
towards him. Smith looked on benevolently.
"What Comrade Maude does not know about cats," he said, "is not
knowledge. His information on Angoras alone would fill a volume."
"Say" - Mr. Jarvis was evidently touching on a point which had weighed
deeply upon him - "why's catnip called catnip?"
John looked at Smith helplessly. It sounded like a riddle, but it was
obvious that Mr. Jarvis's motive in putting the question was not
frivolous. He really wished to know.
"The word, as Comrade Maude was just about to observe," said Smith, "is
a corruption of catmint. Why it should be so corrupted I do not know.
But what of that? The subject is too deep to be gone fully into at the
moment. I should recommend you to read Mr. Maude's little brochure on
the matter. Passing lightly on from that - "
"Did youse ever have a cat dat ate bettles?" enquired Mr. Jarvis.
"There was a time when many of Comrade Maude's _Felidae_ supported
life almost entirely on beetles."
"Did they git thin?"
John felt it was time, if he were to preserve his reputation, to assert
himself.
"No," he replied firmly.
Mr. Jarvis looked astonished.
"English beetles," said Smith, "don't make cats thin. Passing
lightly - "
"I had a cat oncst," said Mr. Jarvis, ignoring the remark and sticking
to his point, "dat ate beetles and got thin and used to tie itself
inter knots."
"A versatile animal," agreed Smith.
"Say," Mr. Jarvis went on, now plainly on a subject near to his heart,
"dem beetles is fierce. Sure! Can't keep de cats off of eatin' dem, I
can't. First t'ing you know dey've swallowed dem, and den dey gits thin
and ties theirselves into knots."
"You should put them into strait-waistcoats," said Smith. "Passing,
however, lightly - "
"Say, ever have a cross-eyed cat?"
"Comrade Maude's cats," said Smith, "have happily been almost entirely
free from strabismus."
"Dey's lucky, cross-eyed cats is. You has a cross-eyed cat, and not'in'
don't never go wrong. But, say, was dere ever a cat wit' one blue and
one yaller one in your bunch? Gee! it's fierce when it's like dat. It's
a skidoo, is a cat wit' one blue eye and one yaller one. Puts you in
bad, surest t'ing you know. Oncst a guy give me a cat like dat, and
first t'ing you know I'm in bad all round. It wasn't till I give him
away to de cop on de corner and gets me one dat's cross-eyed dat I
lifts de skidoo off of me."
"And what happened to the cop?" enquired Smith, interested.
"Oh, he got in bad, sure enough," said Mr. Jarvis without emotion. "One
of de boys what he'd pinched and had sent up the road once lays for
him and puts one over on him wit a black-jack. Sure. Dat's what comes
of havin' a cat wit' one blue and one yaller one."
Mr. Jarvis relapsed into silence. He seemed to be meditating on the
inscrutable workings of Fate. Smith took advantage of the pause to
leave the cat topic and touch on matters of more vital import.
"Tense and exhilarating as is this discussion of the optical
peculiarities of cats," he said, "there is another matter on which, if
you will permit me, I should like to touch. I would hesitate to bore
you with my own private troubles, but this is a matter which concerns
Comrade Maude as well as myself, and I can see that your regard for
Comrade Maude is almost an obsession."
"How's that?"
"I can see," said Smith, "that Comrade Maude is a man to whom you give
the glad hand."
Mr. Jarvis regarded John with respectful affection.
"Sure! He's to the good, Mr. Maude is."
"Exactly," said Smith. "To resume, then. The fact is, Comrade Jarvis,
we are much persecuted by scoundrels. How sad it is in this world! We
look to every side. We look to north, east, south, and west, and what
do we see? Mainly scoundrels. I fancy you have heard a little about our
troubles before this. In fact, I gather that the same scoundrels
actually approached you with a view to engaging your services to do us
up, but that you very handsomely refused the contract. We are the staff
of _Peaceful Moments_."
"_Peaceful Moments_," said Mr. Jarvis. "Sure, dat's right. A guy
comes to me and says he wants you put through it, but I gives him de
trundown."
"So I was informed," said Smith. "Well, failing you, they went to a
gentleman of the name of Reilly - "
"Spider Reilly?"
"Exactly. Spider Reilly, the lessee and manager of the Three Points
gang."
Mr. Jarvis frowned.
"Dose T'ree Points, dey're to de bad. Dey're fresh."
"It is too true, Comrade Jarvis."
"Say," went on Mr. Jarvis, waxing wrathful at the recollection, "what
do youse t'ink dem fresh stiffs done de odder night? Started some rough
woik in me own dance-joint."
"Shamrock Hall?" said Smith. "I heard about it."
"Dat's right, Shamrock Hall. Got gay, dey did, wit' some of the Table
Hillers. Say, I got it in for dem gazebos, sure I have. Surest t'ing
you know."
Smith beamed approval.
"That," he said, "is the right spirit. Nothing could be more admirable.
We are bound together by our common desire to check the ever-growing
spirit of freshness among the members of the Three Points. Add to that
the fact that we are united by a sympathetic knowledge of the manners
and customs of cats, and especially that Comrade Maude, England's
greatest fancier, is our mutual friend, and what more do we want?
Nothing."
"Mr. Maude's to de good," assented Mr. Jarvis, eying John once more in
friendly fashion.
"We are all to the good," said Smith. "Now, the thing I wished to ask
you is this. The office of the paper was, until this morning, securely
guarded by Comrade Brady, whose name will be familiar to you."
"De Kid?"
"On the bull's-eye, as usual. Kid Brady, the coming light-weight
champion of the world. Well, he has unfortunately been compelled to
leave us, and the way into the office is consequently clear to any
sand-bag specialist who cares to wander in. So what I came to ask was,
will you take Comrade Brady's place for a few days?"
"How's that?"
"Will you come in and sit in the office for the next day or so and help
hold the fort? I may mention that there is money attached to the job.
We will pay for your services."
Mr. Jarvis reflected but a brief moment.
"Why, sure," he said. "Me fer dat."
"Excellent, Comrade Jarvis. Nothing could be better. We will see you
to-morrow, then. I rather fancy that the gay band of Three Pointers who
will undoubtedly visit the offices of _Peaceful Moments_ in the
next few days is scheduled to run up against the surprise of their
lives."
"Sure t'ing. I'll bring me canister."
"Do," said Smith. "In certain circumstances one canister is worth a
flood of rhetoric. Till to-morrow, then, Comrade Jarvis. I am very much
obliged to you."
* * * * *
"Not at all a bad hour's work," he said complacently, as they turned
out of Groome Street. "A vote of thanks to you, John, for your
invaluable assistance."
"I didn't do much," said John, with a grin.
"Apparently, no. In reality, yes. Your manner was exactly right.
Reserved, yet not haughty. Just what an eminent cat-fancier's manner
should be. I could see that you made a pronounced hit with Comrade
Jarvis. By the way, as he is going to show up at the office to-morrow,
perhaps it would be as well if you were to look up a few facts bearing
on the feline world. There is no knowing what thirst for information a
night's rest may not give Comrade Jarvis. I do not presume to dictate,
but if you were to make yourself a thorough master of the subject of
catnip, for instance, it might quite possibly come in useful."
CHAPTER XXIII
THE RETIREMENT OF SMITH
The first member of the staff of _Peaceful Moments_ to arrive at
the office on the following morning was Master Maloney. This sounds
like the beginning of a "Plod and Punctuality," or "How Great Fortunes
have been Made" story, but, as a matter of fact, Master Maloney, like
Mr. Bat Jarvis, was no early bird. Larks who rose in his neighborhood,
rose alone. He did not get up with them. He was supposed to be at the
office at nine o'clock. It was a point of honor with him, a sort of
daily declaration of independence, never to put in an appearance before
nine-thirty. On this particular morning he was punctual to the minute,
or half an hour late, whichever way you choose to look at it.
He had only whistled a few bars of "My Little Irish Rose," and had
barely got into the first page of his story of life on the prairie,
when Kid Brady appeared. The Kid had come to pay a farewell visit. He
had not yet begun training, and he was making the best of the short
time before such comforts should be forbidden by smoking a big black
cigar. Master Maloney eyed him admiringly. The Kid, unknown to that
gentleman himself, was Pugsy's ideal. He came from the Plains, and had,
indeed, once actually been a cowboy; he was a coming champion; and he
could smoke big black cigars. There was no trace of his official
well-what-is-it-now? air about Pugsy as he laid down his book and
prepared to converse.
"Say, Mr. Smith around anywhere, Pugsy?" asked the Kid.
"Naw, Mr. Brady. He ain't came yet," replied Master Maloney
respectfully.
"Late, ain't he?"
"Sure! He generally blows in before I do."
"Wonder what's keepin' him?"
As he spoke, John appeared. "Hello, Kid," he said. "Come to say
good-by?"
"Yep," said the Kid. "Seen Mr. Smith around anywhere, Mr. Maude?"
"Hasn't he come yet? I guess he'll be here soon. Hello, who's this?"
A small boy was standing at the door, holding a note.
"Mr. Maude?" he said. "Cop at Jefferson Market give me dis fer you."
"What!" He took the letter, and gave the boy a dime. "Why, it's from
Smith. Great Scott!"
It was apparent that the Kid was politely endeavoring to veil his
curiosity. Master Maloney had no such delicacy.
"What's in de letter, boss?" he enquired.
"The letter," said John slowly, "is from Mr. Smith. And it says that he
was sentenced this morning to thirty days on the Island for resisting
the police."
"He's de guy!" admitted Master Maloney approvingly.
"What's that?" said the Kid. "Mr. Smith been slugging cops! What's he
been doin' that for?"
"I must go and find out at once. It beats me."
It did not take John long to reach Jefferson Market, and by the
judicious expenditure of a few dollars he was enabled to obtain an
interview with Smith in a back room.
The editor of _Peaceful Moments_ was seated on a bench, looking
remarkably disheveled. There was a bruise on his forehead, just where
the hair began. He was, however, cheerful.
"Ah, John," he said. "You got my note all right, then?" John looked at
him, concerned.
"What on earth does it all mean?"
Smith heaved a regretful sigh.
"I fear," he said, "I have made precisely the blamed fool of myself
that Comrade Parker hoped I would."
"Parker!"
Smith nodded.
"I may be misjudging him, but I seem to see the hand of Comrade Parker
in this. We had a raid at my house last night, John. We were pulled."
"What on earth - ?"
"Somebody - if it was not Comrade Parker it was some other citizen
dripping with public spirit - tipped the police off that certain sports
were running a pool-room in the house where I live."
On his departure from the _News_, Smith, from motives of economy,
had moved from his hotel in Washington Square and taken a furnished
room on Fourteenth Street.
"There actually was a pool-room there," he went on, "so possibly I am
wronging Comrade Parker in thinking that this was a scheme of his for
getting me out of the way. At any rate, somebody gave the tip, and at
about three o'clock this morning I was aroused from a dreamless slumber
by quite a considerable hammering at my door. There, standing on the
mat, were two policemen. Very cordially the honest fellows invited me
to go with them. A conveyance, it seemed, waited in the street without.
I disclaimed all connection with the bad gambling persons below, but
they replied that they were cleaning up the house, and, if I wished to
make any remarks, I had better make them to the magistrate. This seemed
reasonable. I said I would put on some clothes and come along. They
demurred. They said they couldn't wait about while I put on clothes. I
pointed out that sky-blue pajamas with old-rose frogs were not the
costume in which the editor of a great New York weekly paper should be
seen abroad in one of the world's greatest cities, but they assured
me - more by their manner than their words - that my misgivings were
groundless, so I yielded. These men, I told myself, have lived longer
in New York than I. They know what is done, and what is not done. I
will bow to their views. So I was starting to go with them like a lamb,
when one of them gave me a shove in the ribs with his night stick. And
it was here that I fancy I may have committed a slight error of
policy."
He smiled dreamily for a moment, then went on.
"I admit that the old Berserk blood of the Smiths boiled at that
juncture. I picked up a sleep-producer from the floor, as Comrade Brady
would say, and handed it to the big-stick merchant. He went down like a
sack of coal over the bookcase, and at that moment I rather fancy the
other gentleman must have got busy with his club. At any rate, somebody
suddenly loosed off some fifty thousand dollars' worth of fireworks,
and the next thing I knew was that the curtain had risen for the next
act on me, discovered sitting in a prison cell, with an out-size in
lumps on my forehead."
He sighed again.
"What _Peaceful Moments_ really needs," he said, "is a
_sitz-redacteur_. A _sitz-redacteur_, John, is a gentleman
employed by German newspapers with a taste for _lese-majeste_ to
go to prison whenever required in place of the real editor. The real
editor hints in his bright and snappy editorial, for instance, that the
Kaiser's mustache gives him bad dreams. The police force swoops down
in a body on the office of the journal, and are met by the
_sitz-redacteur_, who goes with them cheerfully, allowing the
editor to remain and sketch out plans for his next week's article
on the Crown Prince. We need a _sitz-redacteur_ on _Peaceful
Moments_ almost as much as a fighting editor. Not now, of course.
This has finished the thing. You'll have to close down the paper now."
"Close it down!" cried John. "You bet I won't."
"My dear old son," said Smith seriously, "what earthly reason have you
for going on with it? You only came in to help me, and I am no more. I
am gone like some beautiful flower that withers in the night. Where's
the sense of getting yourself beaten up then? Quit!"
John shook his head.
"I wouldn't quit now if you paid me."
"But - "
A policeman appeared at the door.
"Say, pal," he remarked to John, "you'll have to be fading away soon, I
guess. Give you three minutes more. Say it quick."
He retired. Smith looked at John.
"You won't quit?" he said.
"No."
Smith smiled.
"You're an all-wool sport, John," he said. "I don't suppose you know
how to spell quit. Well, then, if you are determined to stand by the
ship like Comrade Casabianca, I'll tell you an idea that came to me in
the watches of the night. If ever you want to get ideas, John, you
spend a night in one of these cells. They flock to you. I suppose I did
more profound thinking last night than I've ever done in my life. Well,
here's the idea. Act on it or not, as you please. I was thinking over
the whole business from soup to nuts, and it struck me that the
queerest part of it all is that whoever owns these Broster Street
tenements should care a Canadian dime whether we find out who he is or
not."
"Well, there's the publicity," began John.
"Tush!" said Smith. "And possibly bah! Do you suppose that the sort of
man who runs Broster Street is likely to care a darn about publicity?
What does it matter to him if the papers soak it to him for about two
days? He knows they'll drop him and go on to something else on the
third, and he knows he's broken no law. No, there's something more in
this business than that. Don't think that this bright boy wants to hush
us up simply because he is a sensitive plant who can't bear to think
that people should be cross with him. He has got some private reason
for wanting to lie low."
"Well, but what difference - ?"
"Comrade, I'll tell you. It makes this difference: that the rents are
almost certainly collected by some confidential person belonging to his
own crowd, not by an ordinary collector. In other words, the collector
knows the name of the man he's collecting for. But for this little
misfortune of mine, I was going to suggest that we waylay that
collector, administer the Third Degree, and ask him who his boss is."
John uttered an exclamation.
"You're right! I'll do it."
"You think you can? Alone?"
"Sure! Don't you worry. I'll - "
The door opened and the policeman reappeared.
"Time's up. Slide, sonny."
John said good-by to Smith, and went out. He had a last glimpse of his
late editor, a sad smile on his face, telling the policeman what was
apparently a humorous story. Complete good will seemed to exist between
them. John consoled himself as he went away with the reflection that
Smith's was a temperament that would probably find a bright side even
to a thirty-days' visit to Blackwell's Island.
He walked thoughtfully back to the office. There was something lonely,
and yet wonderfully exhilarating, in the realization that he was now
alone and in sole charge of the campaign. It braced him. For the first
time in several weeks he felt positively light-hearted.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE CAMPAIGN QUICKENS
Mr. Jarvis was as good as his word. Early in the afternoon he made his
appearance at the office of _Peaceful Moments_, his forelock more
than usually well oiled in honor of the occasion, and his right
coat-pocket bulging in a manner that betrayed to the initiated eye the
presence of his trusty "canister." With him, in addition, he brought a
long, thin young man who wore under his brown tweed coat a blue-and-red
striped sweater. Whether he brought him as an ally in case of need or
merely as a kindred soul with whom he might commune during his vigil,
did not appear.
Pugsy, startled out of his wonted calm by the arrival of this
distinguished company, gazed after the pair, as they passed into the
inner office, with protruding eyes.
John greeted the allies warmly, and explained Smith's absence. Mr.
Jarvis listened to the story with interest, and introduced his
colleague.
"T'ought I'd let him chase along. Long Otto's his monaker."
"Sure!" said John. "The more the merrier. Take a seat. You'll find
cigars over there. You won't mind my not talking for the moment?
There's a wad of work to clear up."
This was an overstatement. He was comparatively free of work, press day
having only just gone by; but he was keenly anxious to avoid
conversation on the subject of cats, of his ignorance of which Mr.
Jarvis's appearance had suddenly reminded him. He took up an old proof
sheet and began to glance through it, frowning thoughtfully.
Mr. Jarvis regarded the paraphernalia of literature on the table with
interest. So did Long Otto, who, however, being a man of silent habit,
made no comment. Throughout the seance and the events which followed it
he confined himself to an occasional grunt. He seemed to lack other
modes of expression.
"Is dis where youse writes up pieces fer de poiper?" enquired Mr.
Jarvis.
"This is the spot," said John. "On busy mornings you could hear our
brains buzzing in Madison Square Garden. Oh, one moment."
He rose and went into the outer office.
"Pugsy," he said, "do you know Broster Street?"
"Sure."
"Could you find out for me exactly when the man comes round collecting
the rents?"
"Surest t'ing you know. I knows a kid what knows anodder kid what lives
dere."
"Then go and do it now. And, after you've found out, you can take the
rest of the day off."
"Me fer dat," said Master Maloney with enthusiasm. "I'll take me goil
to de Bronx Zoo."
"Your girl? I didn't know you'd got a girl, Pugsy. I always imagined
you as one of those strong, stern, blood-and-iron men who despised
girls. Who is she?"
"Aw, she's a kid," said Pugsy. "Her pa runs a delicatessen shop down
our street. She ain't a bad mutt," added the ardent swain. "I'm her
steady."
"Well, mind you send me a card for the wedding. And if two dollars
would be a help - "
"Sure t'ing. T'anks, boss. You're all right."
It had occurred to John that the less time Pugsy spent in the outer
office during the next few days, the better. The lull in the warfare
could not last much longer, and at any moment a visit from Spider
Reilly and his adherents might be expected. Their probable first move
in such an event would be to knock Master Maloney on the head to
prevent his giving warning of their approach.
Events proved that he had not been mistaken. He had not been back in
the inner office for more than a quarter of an hour when there came
from without the sound of stealthy movements. The handle of the door
began - to revolve slowly and quietly. The next moment three figures
tumbled into the room.
It was evident that they had not expected to find the door unlocked,
and the absence of resistance when they applied their weight had
surprising effects. Two of the three did not pause in their career till
they cannoned against the table. The third checked himself by holding
the handle.
John got up coolly.
"Come right in," he said. "What can we do for you?" It had been too
dark on the other occasion of his meeting with the Three Pointers to
take note of their faces, though he fancied that he had seen the man
holding the door-handle before. The others were strangers. They were
all exceedingly unprepossessing in appearance.
There was a pause. The three marauders had become aware of the presence
of Mr. Jarvis and his colleague, and the meeting was causing them
embarrassment, which may have been due in part to the fact that both
had produced and were toying meditatively with ugly-looking pistols.
Mr. Jarvis spoke.
"Well," he said, "what's doin'?"
The man to whom the question was directly addressed appeared to have
some difficulty in finding a reply. He shuffled his feet, and looked at
the floor. His two companions seemed equally at a loss.
"Goin' to start anything?" enquired Mr. Jarvis, casually.
The humor of the situation suddenly tickled John. The embarrassment of
the uninvited guests was ludicrous.
"You've just dropped in for a quiet chat, is that it?" he said. "Well,
we're all delighted to see you. The cigars are on the table. Draw up
your chairs."
Mr. Jarvis opposed the motion. He drew slow circles in the air with his
revolver.
"Say! Youse had best beat it. See?"
Long Otto grunted sympathy with the advice.
"And youse had best go back to Spider Reilly," continued Mr. Jarvis,
"and tell him there ain't nothin' doing in the way of rough-house wit'
dis gent here. And you can tell de Spider," went on Bat with growing
ferocity, "dat next time he gits fresh and starts in to shootin' up my
dance-joint, I'll bite de head off'n him. See? Dat goes. If he t'inks
his little two-by-four crowd can git way wit' de Groome Street, he's
got anodder guess comin'. An' don't fergit dis gent here and me is
friends, and anyone dat starts anyt'ing wit' dis gent is going to find
trouble. Does dat go? Beat it."
He jerked his shoulder in the direction of the door.
The delegation then withdrew.
"Thanks," said John. "I'm much obliged to you both. You're certainly
there with the goods as fighting editors. I don't know what I should
have done without you."
"Aw, Chee!" said Mr. Jarvis, handsomely dismissing the matter. Long
Otto kicked the leg of a table, and grunted.
Pugsy Maloney's report on the following morning was entirely
satisfactory. Rents were collected in Broster Street on Thursdays.
Nothing could have been more convenient, for that very day happened to
be Thursday.
"I rubbered around," said Pugsy, "an' done de sleut' act, an' it's this
way. Dere's a feller blows in every T'ursday 'bout six o'clock, an' den
it's up to de folks to dig down inter deir jeans for de stuff, or out
dey goes before supper. I got dat from my kid frien' what knows a kid
what lives dere. An' say, he has it pretty fierce, dat kid. De kid what
lives dere. He's a wop kid, an Italian, an' he's in bad 'cos his pa
comes over from Italy to woik on de subway."
"I don't see why that puts him in bad," said John wonderingly. "You
don't construct your stories well, Pugsy. You start at the end, then go
back to any part which happens to appeal to you at the moment, and
eventually wind up at the beginning. Why is this kid in bad because his
father has come to work on the subway?"
"Why, sure, because his pa got fired an' swatted de foreman one on de
coco, an' dey gives him t'oity days. So de kid's all alone, an' no one
to pay de rent."
"I see," said John. "Well, come along with me and introduce me, and
I'll look after that."
At half-past five John closed the office for the day, and, armed with a
big stick and conducted by Master Maloney, made his way to Broster
Street. To reach it, it was necessary to pass through a section of the
enemy's country, but the perilous passage was safely negotiated. The
expedition reached its unsavory goal intact.
The wop kid inhabited a small room at the very top of a building
half-way down the street. He was out when John and Pugsy arrived.
It was not an abode of luxury, the tenement; they had to feel their way
up the stairs in almost pitch darkness. Most of the doors were shut,
but one on the second floor was ajar. Through the opening John had a
glimpse of a number of women sitting on up-turned boxes. The floor was
covered with little heaps of linen. All the women were sewing.
Stumbling in the darkness, John almost fell against the door. None of
the women looked up at the noise. In Broster Street time was evidently
money.
On the top floor Pugsy halted before the open door of an empty room.
The architect in this case had apparently given rein to a passion for
originality, for he had constructed the apartment without a window of
any sort whatsoever. The entire stock of air used by the occupants came
through a small opening over the door.
It was a warm day, and John recoiled hastily.
"Is this the kid's room?" he said. "I guess the corridor's good enough
for me to wait in. What the owner of this place wants," he went on
reflectively, "is scalping. Well, we'll do it in the paper if we can't
in any other way. Is this your kid?"
A small boy had appeared. He seemed surprised to see visitors. Pugsy
undertook to do the honors. Pugsy, as interpreter, was energetic, but
not wholly successful. He appeared to have a fixed idea that the
Italian language was one easily mastered by the simple method of saying
"da" instead of "the," and adding a final "a" to any word that seemed
to him to need one.
"Say, kid," he began, "has da rent-a-man come yet-a?"
The black eyes of the wop kid clouded. He gesticulated, and said
something in his native language.
"He hasn't got next," reported Master Maloney. "He can't git on to me
curves. Dese wop kids is all bone-heads. Say, kid, look-a here." He
walked to the door, rapped on it smartly, and, assuming a look of
extreme ferocity, stretched out his hand and thundered: "Unbelt-a!
Slip-a me da stuff!"
The wop kid's puzzlement in the face of this address became pathetic.
"This," said John, deeply interested, "is getting exciting. Don't give
in, Pugsy. I guess the trouble is that your too perfect Italian accent
is making the kid homesick."
Master Maloney made a gesture of disgust.
"I'm t'roo. Dese Dagoes makes me tired. Dey don't know enough to go
upstairs to take de elevated. Beat it, you mutt," he observed with
moody displeasure, accompanying the words with a gesture which conveyed
its own meaning. The wop kid, plainly glad to get away, slipped down
the stairs like a shadow.
Pugsy shrugged his shoulders.
"Boss," he said resignedly, "it's up to youse."
John reflected.
"It's all right," he said. "Of course, if the collector had been here,
the kid wouldn't be. All I've got to do is to wait."
He peered over the banisters into the darkness below.
"Not that it's not enough," he said; "for of all the poisonous places I