[Illustration: 0152]
IT was on Friday morning that the _Merry Anne_ had sailed away from
Lakeville for her first trip to Spencer's. On this same Friday another
set of persons were passing through a series of events which concern
this story.
Dick had sailed out at daybreak. A few hours later, when the morning
was still young, Roche, who had come down by train from Manistee, was
hanging about near “The Teamster's Friend.” now standing on the corner
by the lumber office looking stealthily up and down the street, now
passing by on the opposite sidewalk, closely watching the screened
windows. Finally he crossed over and entered the saloon to ask for
McGlory. Murphy, the senior partner in the business, who lived a
few blocks away, came in for his day's work and found Roche there.
“McGlory,” said Murphy, “won't be back for a week or so.” At this, with
an angry exclamation, Roche went out. The quantity of bad whiskey he had
taken in since his discharge from the _Merry Anne_ at the Manistee pier,
had not worked to change his humor or to calm his faculties. He was
plunging around the lumber office into a side street when Beveridge, who
had been watching his every movement, accosted him.
“Beg pardon, have you got a match?”
“Hey? What's that?”
“Have you got a match?”
“A match? Why, sure.”
“Much obliged. I've got the cigars. Better make a fair trade. You 'll
find 'em a good smoke.”
“Well, don't care 'f I do. Here, you can't light in this wind.”
“Oh, yes, I'm Irish. Say, haven't I seen you somewhere?”
“Couldn't say.”
“Why, sure I have. Isn't your name Roche?”
“That's what it is.”
“And you're mate of the _Merry Anne_, sailing out of Lakeville?”
“You're wrong there.”
“No, I'm sure of it. I've seen you too many times.”
“Why, do you b'long out there?”
“Yes, I live at Lakeville.”
“Well, look here; I 'll tell you how it is. I was on the _Merry Anne_,
but I ain't any more.”
“Oh, you quit Smiley?”
“You're right, I quit him. No more Smiley for me.”
“What's the trouble?”
“What _ain't_ the trouble, you'd better say. But I ain't tellin'.
Smiley's done me dirt, an' I know 'im for just what he is, but I ain't
tellin'.”
They were passing another saloon, and Roche accepted an invitation to
step in.
“I've seen Smiley a good deal around the piers,” said the young fellow,
when they were seated. “Likes to swagger some, doesn't he?”
“Oh, he's no good.”
“Mean to work for? Those conceited fellows generally are.”
“He's mean, yes. But that ain't the worst thing about him.” Roche paused
guardedly, and glanced around the empty room.
“I don't know much about him myself, just seen him now and then. But of
course I've heard things.
“I 'll tell you right here, you arn't the only one that 'll be hearin'
things before much longer.” Another cautious glance around. “You don't
happen to know anythin' about law, do you?”
“I've studied it some.”
“Well, look here. I know some things about Dick Smiley, and if it was
worth my while, I'd tell 'em. But you see, I am an honest man, an' I've
got my livin' to make, an' he's just cute enough to lie about me an' try
to drag me down with 'im. Folks might say I didn't quit him the first
minute I found 'im out. I can't run no risks, you see.”
“I can tell you this much--but, of course, it's none of my business.”
“Go on.”
“Well, it depends on the case. But if he has done anything serious,
and if the authorities find it hard to get evidence against him, you
probably wouldn't have any trouble, even if you were right in with him.
A man can turn state's evidence, you know.”
“But I wasn't in with 'im. When I'd found him out, I quit him--the first
good chance I got.”
“Yes, of course. But it all depends. I couldn't tell you anything more,
because I don't know the case. It all depends on how bad they want him.”
“They want him bad enough.” He dropped his voice, and leaned across the
table. “Did you ever hear o' Whiskey Jim?”
“You don't mean to say--”
Roche nodded.
“Why, man, you're rich.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Haven't you seen the papers?”
Roche shook his head.
“There's a reward of five thousand up for Whiskey Jim.”
“Who 'll give it?”
“The Consolidated Dealers. You see, there has been a counterfeit label,
of the Red Seal brand, on the market; and I understand the liquor men
have been running it down and putting the Treasury Agents on the track
to protect their business.”
“Fi' thousand, eh? An' do you think we could make it?”
“If you have the evidence to convict this Whiskey Jim, we can. But now,
before we go into this, what sort of an arrangement will you make with
me if I steer it through for you?”
“What would you want?”
“Well--I should go at it something like this. I should go to the United
States Treasury officials and tell them I could get them the evidence
they want if they would agree not to prosecute us. It would take some
managing, but it can be done. But I can't do it for nothing.”
“What do you want?”
“Say one thousand. That's twenty per cent.”
“Too much.”
“Not for the work to be done. Remember, I agree to get you off without
any more trouble than just giving in your evidence.”
“But I don't need to get off. I ain't done nothin'.”
“No, I understand. Of course not.”
“Say five hundred, and it's a go.”
“No, sir. I can't do it for that. I might take seven hundred and fifty,
but--”
“It's too much, a--------sight too much. You'd ought to do it for less.”
“Couldn't think of it.”
“Well--”
“Is it a go?”
“I suppose so.”
“All right. That's understood. If I can get the five thousand for you,
you will hand me seven hundred and fifty. Now, I suppose the sooner we
get at this, the better for both of us. When can I see you and talk it
over?”
“You might come around this afternoon.”
“Say two o'clock?”
“That's all right.”
“Where do you live?”
“I'm stoppin' over on North Clark. Forty-two-seventy-two an' a half,
third floor. You 'll be around, then, will you, Mr.--Mr.--”
“Bedloe's my name. Yes, I 'll be there at two sharp.”
But at two o'clock, when Beveridge called at the boarding-house on North
Clark Street he found that Roche was gone. “He only stopped here a day,”
said the landlady. “This noon he paid me and said he was called out of
town by a telegram.”
“Did he say when he would be back?”
“He didn't know.”
“Did he leave his things?”
“No. What little he had he took along.” Beveridge turned thoughtfully
away and walked around the corner, where Wilson was awaiting him. He had
no means of knowing that Roche was already well on the way to Spencer,
where Smiley saw him a few days later.
“Not there, Bill?” asked Wilson.
“No,--skipped.”
“Lost his nerve, eh?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, what now?”
“Nothing, until I see Madge to-night.”
“Do you really expect anything there?”
“I don't know. It's a chance, that's all.”
“Do you think she 'll keep her promise?”
“Couldn't say. I 'll give her a chance, anyhow.”
She did keep it. Very shortly after five, while Beveridge was riding
slowly up and down near the meeting-place, he saw her coming, and his
eyes lighted up with surprise. He could not know how much thought had
been given to the effect which pleased him so; he only observed that she
looked like a young girl in her short wheeling skirt and leggings, and
with her natty little cap and well-arranged hair.
They found St. Paul's Park gay with lights and music when they arrived.
Dancing had been going on all the afternoon on the open-air
platform. The ring-the-cane booth, the
every-time-you-knock-the-baby-down-you-get-a-five-cent-cigar booth, were
surrounded by uproarious country folk, with only here and there a city
face among them. A little way down the slope, through the grove, ran the
sluggish North Branch, a really inviting spot in the twilight; and to
this spot it was that Beveridge led the way after checking the wheels.
“The boats don't amount to much,” he said to Madge, as he helped her
down the bank, “but I guess we can have a good time, anyhow.”
She did not reply to this, but there was a sparkle in her eyes and a
flush on her cheek, as she stepped lightly into the boat, that drew an
admiring glance from Beveridge.
He took the clumsy oars, and pulled upstream, under the railroad bridge,
past all the other boats, on into the farming country, where the banks
were green and shaded.
“Pretty nice, isn't it?” said he.
She nodded. They could hear the music in the distance, and occasionally
the voices; but around them was nothing but the cool depths of an oak
copse. She was half reclining in the stern, looking lazily at the dim
muscular outlines of her oarsman. “You row well,” she said.
“I ought to. I was brought up on water.”
“You don't know how this takes me back,” said Madge, dreamily. “I
couldn't tell you how long it is since I have been out in the country
like this.”
He pulled a few strokes before replying, “Didn't McGlory ever take you
out?”
“I don't like to think about him now. Let's talk of something else.”
“I'm glad you don't like to. That's the only thing that bothers me.”
“What--Joe?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, he needn't bother you.”
“I can't help it. You see, you're--”
“His wife? Yes, so I am. But I'm--”
“What, Madge?”
“I don't know what you would think if I said it.”
“Say it, please.”
She glanced into his face. He saw with surprise that her eyes were
shining. “Well--I was--going to say--that--that--I'm about through with
him.”
“Do you mean that, Madge?”
She was silent; perhaps she had not meant to say so much.
“Has he been ugly to you?”
“It isn't his meanness altogether. If that were all, I could have stood
it. I have tried hard enough to love him all the while. Even after he
first struck me--”
“You don't mean--”
She smiled, half bitterly, and rolled her sleeve up above her elbow.
Even in that faint light he could see the discoloration on her forearm.
“He meant it for my head,” she said.
“Why, he's a brute.”
She smiled again. “Didn't you know that a woman can love a brute? It
wasn't that. Even when he made me live in the saloon, and when I found
out what his business really was--” she paused. “I was brought up a
little better than this, you know.”
“Yes, I have always thought that.”
“And when I learned that he wasn't--well, honest, I don't believe I
should have cared very much.”
“Oh, I guess he is not dishonest, is he?”
“He is bad enough, I'm afraid. He--I don't know--I don't believe it
would do any good to tell you--”
“No, don't, if you'd rather not, Madge.”
“I don't care--I'd just as soon. You don't know what a relief it is to
have somebody I can talk out with. I have guarded my tongue so long. And
I suppose, even after all that is past, that if he hadn't left me--”
“You don't mean that he has gone?”
She nodded. “It comes to the same thing. He will drop in once in a
while, I suppose. But he has gone back to the Lake with Captain Smiley,
and that means that he wants to see--” she turned toward the shadow of
the oaks--“there's somebody up in Michigan that--that he--”
“Oh,” said Beveridge.
“Yes, I have known it a long while.” She turned, looked at him, and
spoke impetuously: “Do you think I haven't been fair to him? Do you
think he--anybody--could say I hadn't stood all a woman ought to stand?”
Her real emotion caught Beveridge off his guard. For an instant he
hesitated; then he said gently: “Don't let it disturb you now, Madge.
I don't think he can bother you much more. There is no reason why that
shouldn't all slip into the past.”
“I wish it could.”
Beveridge was silent for a moment. He wished to lead her into telling
all she knew about McGlory and his ways, yet he hesitated to abuse the
confidence so frankly offered. But, however--“There is one thing about
it, though, Madge,” he said quietly. “If he is on the Lake, he will have
to go where his boat goes, and there isn't much chance for him to get
into bad ways. Even if, as you think, he is dishonest, he will have to
behave himself until he gets back to town.”
“You don't understand,” she cried. “It is just there, on the water, that
he can do the most harm. I'm going to tell you, anyway. I don't care.
He is a smuggler, or a moonshiner, or something,--I don't know what you
would call it.”
“A moonshiner--here in Chicago!”
She nodded nervously. “He is only one of them. I have known it for a
long time, and sometimes I have thought I ought to speak out, but then
he--oh, you don't know what a place he has put me into--what he has
dragged me to! There is one thing I will say for Joe,--he is not the
worst of them. The rest are smarter than he is, and I believe they have
used him for a cat's-paw. But he is bad enough.”
“You don't know how hard this is to believe, Madge. That a man sailing
on a decent lumber schooner can manage to do enough moonshining--or even
smuggling--to hurt anybody--”
“But that is just it! It is in the lumber.”
“In the lumber!” He had stopped rowing, and was leaning forward. Had her
own excitement been less, she could hardly have failed to observe the
eager note in his voice.
“Yes--oh, I know about it. But it's no use saying anything. They will
never catch the head man--he is too smart for them--” Beveridge took her
hand, and held it gently in both his own. “Don't let's think any more
about any of them, Madge. I don't wonder it excites you--it would
anybody. But you are through with them all now.” She sat up, rigid, and
looked at him. “Are you sure I am?”
“Yes.”
“But how? Joe is my husband. Tell me what you mean. What am I to think?
You see what I have done. I have let you bring me out here; I have--I
have told you things that could put Joe in prison. Do you--do you mean
that you can help me--that I can get free from him?”
For a moment Beveridge thought of turning and rowing back. But he was
not yet through. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but he
would not retreat now.
“You are willing to be free?” he whispered. “Oh--yes.”
“To leave him forever?”
“Yes.”
“Then we understand each other, Madge. It may take some time.”
“I don't care--I don't care for anything now.”
“I shall have to do some thinking.”
“Do you think it will be hard?”
“No, but we shall see. Shall we start back--I'm afraid you won't get
home till pretty late, now.”
“It doesn't matter; I'm alone there now, you know. But still, perhaps
we'd better.” As they rowed down the stream, and later, on the ride back
to the city, Beveridge could not but be fascinated by Madge, in the flow
of spirits that had come with the freedom of this evening. She liked
to look at him and to laugh at his little jokes. She caressed him in a
hundred ways with her voice and her eyes. She rode her wheel with the
lightness of youth, and led the way flying down the paved streets of the
city. And when at last she dismounted at “The Teamster's Friend,” and
unlocked the side door, she was in a merry glow.
“Come in,” she said.
“Don't you want to get to sleep? It is late.”
“I'm not tired. We must have something to eat after that ride. Wasn't it
fine?”
So he went in with her, and they sat down to a cold lunch in the dining
room.
When he rose to go, and they were both lingering in the dining-room
door, he said, smiling, “By the way, Madge, while I think of it, I want
an empty bottle.”
“Come out into the bar-room. You can help yourself.”
She lighted the gas for him, and he went in behind the bar and rummaged
among some bottles and flasks that stood on the floor. At length he
found one that seemed to suit him, and stood a moment looking intently
at the label.
“Do you find what you want?”
“Yes, this will do first-rate.”
She followed him to the door, and said, as he stood on the step, “When
am I to see you again?”
“In a few days.”
“Not to-morrow?”
“No, I'm afraid not. I expect to be out of the city over Sunday. I have
to go where I'm sent, you know.”
“Do you know,” she said, with a smile, “you have not told me anything
about your business? Why, I hardly think I know anything about you.”
“You will soon know enough.”
She smiled again. “Wait, you will have to be a little careful about
coming. Mr. Murphy goes away about ten o'clock every night. You might
come a little later, and then if Joe isn't here, I will be down. If you
don't see me, you mustn't ask any questions.”
“I won't.”
“And you will be thinking about--”
“Yes. We 'll talk it over next time. Good night.”
“Good night,” she replied. And when he had walked a little way, he heard
her humming a tune to herself in the doorway.
Wilson was sitting in the shadow on the steps of the lumber office. He
rose and came forward.
“Hello, Bill!”
“That you, Bert?”
“What's left of me. If I'd known you were going to be gone half the
night, I'd have brought a blanket.”
“Couldn't help it.”
“I suppose not. Not even if she'd been fifty-five, with red hair and a
squint, eh?” Beveridge, instead of laughing, made an impatient gesture.
“Come out here in the light, Bert. Nobody around, is there?”
“No. Our friend the policeman went by ten minutes ago. Just as well he
didn't see you with your friend. They say he's a chum of McGlory's.”
“See what you think of this,” said Bedloe, drawing the bottle from under
his coat.
“Hello, you don't mean to say you've got it?”
“Take a good look.”
“Yes, sir. Well, I 'll be----! There's the red seal, and the left foot
a little out of drawing, and the right hand turned out instead of in,
and--is it?--yes, an imperfection in the capital C. Yes, sir, you've
got it! I won't say another word, Bill. You're a wizard. You must have
hypnotized her.”
“Well, I got it. No matter how. And I got something else, too. Here,
step into the lumber yard before we're seen. Stenzenberger doesn't keep
a private watchman, does he?”
“No. He doesn't need it, with his friendly hold on the police.”
A board was loose in the rear fence. Within a very few minutes the two
men were stepping cautiously between the piles of lumber, Beveridge
peering eagerly into the shadows, his companion watching him and
following close behind.
“Wish we'd brought a lantern, Bill.”
“I thought of it. But it would hardly be safe.”
“Come this way--over by the Murphy and McGlory shed. That's where it
would have to be handled.”
Silently they tiptoed forward, reaching out with their hands, to avoid a
collision with the projecting timbers. Once Beveridge tripped and would
have fallen if Wilson had not caught his arm. “Wait--keep still, Bert!”
“It's all right. We're way back from the street here.”
“It isn't the street I'm watching. See that light?” He pointed up to a
second-story window in the adjoining building. “She's still up; and it's
awful quiet around here.”
A moment later Beveridge stopped and sniffed.
“What is it, Bill?”
“Don't you smell anything?”
“Ye-yes, guess I do, a little. But there are a lot of old kegs and
bottles on the other side of the fence.”
“There are no old kegs about this.” He moved forward, feeling and
sniffing his way along a pile of twelve-by-twelve timbers. “Here, have
you that big jack-knife on you, Bert?”
“Yes; here it is.”
Cautiously, very cautiously, Beveridge began prying at the end of one of
the big sticks.
“Shall I lend a hand, Bill?”
“No; it's got to be done without leaving any signs of our being here. It
may take time--the thing is in for keeps, all right.”
During fully a quarter of an hour they stood there, Beveridge prying
with the long blade of the knife, his companion watching him without a
word. Finally Beveridge gave a suppressed exclamation.
“Fetched her?”
“Yes. Take hold--easy now.”
Together they pulled a long, circular plug from the end of the timber,
and set it on the ground.
“Just put your arm in there, Bert.”
“Well, I 'll be----! Did she tell you about this?”
“She certainly did.”
“But how did you do it, man, without letting on?”
“Never mind about that,” replied Beveridge, shortly.
“Yes, sir. It's all there--no end of it.”
“All right now; that's enough. Let's put the plug back. Now's the time
for us to go slow.”
“You're right there. Even with this it will be awful hard to bring it
home. The next thing to get is the man. I wish we knew where that fellow
Roche went. What do you think?”
“I'd be willing to buy him a new hat if he isn't on the train for
northern Michigan just about now. But we don't need him very bad. We
want a bigger man than him.”