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“And, Dick, if, in the thick of the strife, Van forgets his friendship for you and becomes your enemy?”
“Then, as I am only human, I should be his enemy too. But that will not happen.”
“I hope not; I hope not, my boy. But – Van Vernet has already accepted the stranger’s proposition.”
Stanhope leaped to his feet.
“What!” he cried, “has Van agreed to work against me – without a word to me – and so soon!”
His lips trembled now, and his eyes searched those of his Chief with the eager, inquiring look of a grieved child.
“It is as I say, Stanhope.”
“Then,” and he threw back his head and instantly resumed his usual look of careless indifference, “tell your patron, whoever he may be, that I am his man, for one year, or for twenty!”
CHAPTER V.
“STANHOPE’S FIRST TRICK.”
Van Vernet and Richard Stanhope had been brother detectives during the entire term of their professional career.
Entering the Agency when mere striplings, they had at once formed a friendship that had been strong and lasting. Their very differences of disposition and habits made them the better fellow-workmen, and the role most difficult for one was sure to be found the easier part for the other to play.
They had been a strong combination, and the Chief of the detectives wasted some time in pondering the question: what would be the result, when their skill and courage stood arrayed against each other?
Meantime, Richard Stanhope, wasting no thought upon the matter, hastened from the presence of his Chief to his own quarters.
“It’s my last night,” he muttered, as he inserted his key in the lock, “and I’ll just take one more look at the slums. I don’t want to lose one bird from that flock.”
Half an hour later, there sallied forth from the door where Stanhope had entered, a roughly-dressed, swaggering, villainous-looking fellow, who bore about with him the strongly defined odors of tobacco and bad whiskey.
This individual, armed with a black liquor flask, two revolvers, a blood-thirsty-looking dirk, a pair of brass knuckles, and a quantity of plug tobacco, took his way through the streets, avoiding the more popular and respectable thoroughfares, and gradually approaching that portion of the city almost entirely given over to the worst of the bad, – a network of short streets and narrow alleys, as intricate as the maze, and as dangerous to the unwary as an African jungle.
But the man who now entered these dismal streets walked with the manner of one familiar with their sights and sounds. Moving along with an air of stolid indifference to what was before and about him, he arrived at a rickety building, somewhat larger than those surrounding it, the entrance to which was reached by going down, instead of up, a flight of stone steps. This entrance was feebly illuminated by a lantern hung against the doorway, and by a few stray gleams of light that shone out from the rents in the ragged curtains.
Pushing open the door, our visitor found himself in a large room with sanded floor, a counter or bar, and five or six tables, about which a number of men were lounging, – some at cards, some drinking, and some conversing in the queer jargon called thieves’ slang, and which is as Greek to the unenlightened.
The buzz of conversation almost ceased as the door opened, but was immediately resumed when the new comer came forward toward the light.
“Is that you, Cull?” called the man behind the bar. “You’ve been keepin’ scarce of late.”
The man addressed as “Cull” laughed discordantly.
“I’ve been visitin’ in the country,” he returned, with a knowing wink. “It’s good for my health this time o’ year. How’s business? You’ve got the hull deck on hand, I should say.”
“You better say! Things is boomin’; nearly all of the old uns are in.”
“Well, spread out the drinks, Pap, I’m tolerably flush. Boys, come up, and if I don’t know any of ye we’ll be interduced.”
Almost instantly a dozen men were flocking about the bar, some eager to grasp the hand of the liberal last arrival, and others paying their undivided attention to the bar keeper’s cheerful command:
“Nominate yer dose, gentlemen.”
While the party, glasses in hand, were putting themselves en rapport, the door again opened, and now the hush that fell upon the assembled “gentlemen” was deeper and more lasting.
Evidently, the person who entered was a stranger to all in the Thieves’ Tavern, for such the building was.
He was a young man, with a countenance half fierce, half desperate, wholly depraved. He was haggard, dirty, and ragged, having the look and the gait of a man who has travelled far and is footsore and weary. As he approached the group about the bar it was also evident that he was half intoxicated.
“Good evenin’, sirs,” he said with surly indifference. Then to the man behind the bar: “Mix us a cocktail, old Top, and strong.”
While the bar keeper was deftly shaking up the desired drink, the men before the counter drew further away from the stranger, and some of them began a whispered conversation.
The last arrival eyed them with a sneer of contempt, and said to the bar keeper, as he gulped down his drink: “Your coves act like scared kites. Probably they ain’t used to good society.”
“See here, my friend,” spoke a blustering fellow, advancing toward him, “you made a little mistake. This ’ere ain’t a tramps’ lodgin’ house.”
“Ain’t it?” queried the stranger; “then what the Moses are you doin’ here?”
“You’ll swallow that, my hearty!”
“When?”
The stranger threw himself into an attitude of defence and glared defiance at his opponent.
“Wax him, Charley!”
“Let’s fire him out!”
“Hold on gentlemen; fair play!”
“I’ll give you one more chance,” said the blusterer. “Ask my pardon and then mizzle instantly, or I’ll have ye cut up in sections as sure as my name’s Rummey Joe.”
The half intoxicated man was no coward. Evidently he was ripe for a quarrel.
“I intend to stop here!” he cried, bringing his fist down upon the counter with a force that made it creak. “I’m goin’ to stay right here till the old Nick comes to fetch me. And I’m goin’ ter send your teeth down your big throat in three minutes.”
There was a chorus of exclamations, a drawing of weapons, and a forward rush. Then sudden silence.
The man who had lately ordered drinks for the crowd, was standing between the combatants, one hand upon the breast of the last comer, the other grasping a pistol levelled just under the nose of Rummey Joe.
“Drop yer fist, boy! Put up that knife, Joe! Let’s understand each other.”
Then addressing the stranger, but keeping an eye upon Rummey Joe, he said:
“See here, my hearty, you don’t quite take in the siteration. This is a sort of club house, not open to the general public. If you want to hang out here, you must show your credentials.”
The stranger hesitated a moment, and then, without so much as a glance at his antagonist, said:
“Your racket is fair enough. I know where I am, and ye’ve all got a right to see my colors. I’ll show ye my hand, and then” – with a baleful glare at Rummey Joe – “I’ll settle with that blackguard.”
Advancing to one of the tables, he deliberately lifted his foot and, resting it upon the table top, rolled up the leg of his trousers, and pulled down a dirty stocking over his low shoe.
“There’s my passport, gentlemen.”
They crowded about him and gazed upon the naked ankle, that bore the imprint of a broad band, sure indication that the limb had recently been decorated with a ball and chain.
“And now,” said the ex-convict, turning fiercely, “I’ll teach you the kind of a tramp I am, Mr. Rummey Joe!”
Before a hand or voice could be raised to prevent it, the two men had grappled, and were struggling fiercely for the mastery.
“Give them a show, boys!” some one said.
The crowd drew back and watched the combat; watched with unconcern until they saw their comrade, Rummey Joe, weakening in the grasp of his antagonist; until knives flashed in the hand of each, and fierce blows were struck on both sides. Then, when Rummey Joe, uttering a shriek of pain, went down underneath the knife of the victor, there was a roar and a rush, and the man who had conquered their favorite was borne down by half a dozen strong arms, menaced by as many sharp, glittering knives.
But again the scene shifted.
An agile form was bounding about among them; blows fell swift as rain; there was a lull in the combat, and when the wildly struggling figures, some scattered upon the floor, some thrown back upon each other, recovered from their consternation, they saw that the convict had struggled up upon one elbow, while, directly astride of his prostrate body, stood the man who had asked for his credentials, fierce contempt in his face, and, in either hand, a heavy six shooter.
“Don’t pull, boys, I’ve got the drop on ye! Cowards, to tackle a single man, six of ye!”
“By Heavens, he’s killed Rummey!”
“No matter; it was a fair fight, and Rummey at the bottom of the blame.”
“All the same he’ll never kill a pal of ours, and live to tell it! Stand off, Cully Devens!”
“No, sir! I am going to take this wounded man out of this without another scratch, if I have to send every mother’s son of you to perdition.”
His voice rang out clear and commanding. In the might of his wrath, he had forgotten the language of Cully Devens and spoken as a man to cowards.
The effect was electrical.
From among the men standing at bay, one sprang forward, crying:
“Boys, here’s a traitor amongst us! Who are ye, ye sneak, that has played yerself fer Cully Devens?”
The lithe body bent slightly forward, a low laugh crossed the lips of the bogus Cully, the brown eyes lighted up, and flashed in the eyes of the men arrayed against him. Then came the answer, coolly, as if the announcement were scarcely worth making:
“Richard Stanhope is my name, and I’ve got a trump here for every trick you can show me. Step up, boys, don’t be bashful!”
CHAPTER VI.
STANHOPE’S HUMANITY
“Richard Stanhope is my name, and I’ve got a trump here for every trick you can show me. Step up, boys, don’t be bashful!”
Momentous silence followed this announcement, while the habitues of the Thieves’ Tavern glanced into each others’ faces in consternation.
An ordinary meddler, however much his courage and skill, would have met with summary chastisement; but Dick Stanhope!
Not a man among them but knew the result of an attack upon him. Bullets swift and sure, in the brains or hearts of some; certain vengeance, sooner or later, upon all.
To avoid, on all possible occasions, an open encounter with an officer of the law, is the natural instinct of the crook. Besides, Stanhope was never off his guard; his presence, alone among them, was sure indication that they were in more danger than he.
So reasoned the astonished scoundrels, instantly, instinctively.
“Look here, boys,” Stanhope’s cool voice broke in upon their silence; “I’m here on a little private business which need not concern you, unless you make me trouble. This man,” nodding down at the prostrate ex-convict, “is my game. I’m going to take him out of this, and if you raise a hand to prevent it, or take a step to follow me, you’ll find yourselves detained for a long stretch.”
He threw back his head and gave a long, low whistle.
“Hear that, my good sirs. That’s a note of preparation. One more such will bring you into close quarters. If you are not back at those tables, every man of you, inside of two minutes, I’ll give the second call.”
Some moved with agility, some reluctantly, some sullenly; but they all obeyed him.
“Now, Pap, come out and help me lift this fellow. Are you badly hurt, my man?”
The wounded man groaned and permitted them to lift him to his feet.
“He can walk, I think,” went on Stanhope, in a brisk, business-like way. “Lean on me, my lad.” Then, turning to the bar keeper and thrusting some money into his hand: “Give these fellows another round of drinks, Pap. Boys, enjoy yourselves; ta-ta.”
And without once glancing back at them he half led, half supported, the wounded man out from the bar-room, up the dirty stone steps, and into the dirtier street.
“Boys,” said the bar keeper as he distributed the drinks at Stanhope’s expense, “you done a sensible thing when you let up on Dick Stanhope. He’s got the alley lined with peelers and don’t you forget it.”
For a little way Stanhope led his man in silence. Then the rescued ex-convict made a sudden convulsive movement, gathered himself for a mighty effort, broke from the supporting grasp of the detective, and fled away down the dark street.
Down one block and half across the next he ran manfully. Then he reeled, staggered wildly from side to side, threw up his arms, and fell heavily upon his face.
“I knew you’d bring yourself down,” said Stanhope, coming up behind him. “You should not treat a man as an enemy, sir, until he’s proven himself such.”
He lifted the prostrate man, turning him easily, and rested the fallen head upon his knee.
“Can you swallow a little?” pressing a flask of brandy to the lips of the ex-convict.
The man gasped and feebly swallowed a little of the liquor.
“There,” laying down the flask, “are your wounds bleeding?”
The wounded man groaned, and then whispered feebly:
“I’m done for – I think – are you – an officer?”
“Yes.”
“Af – after me?”
“No.”
