THE CAPTURE OF THE WOOL SMUGGLERS
Except for the watchman, not a soul was astir about the _Lycoming_
when Willie awoke the next morning. Eagerly he rose and dressed.
Even with a multitude of interesting things about him to occupy the
hours, he could hardly wait to resume the pursuit of the wool
smugglers. But somehow he managed to pass the day, though as the
afternoon waned his impatience increased visibly. When supper-time
came and Sheridan had not yet appeared, Willie was almost in
despair. He felt certain the Secret Service man had decided not to
take him on the adventure.
All things come to him who waits, however, and time brought Sheridan
to Willie. After the distressed lad had almost given up hope of
seeing him, the Secret Service man appeared. Willie was too much
agitated to remain quietly aboard the boat, and was pacing up and
down the pier, when he heard a voice speaking to the watchman at the
pier entrance. He recognized the voice instantly and raced down the
pier to greet the Secret Service man.
“Well,” smiled Sheridan, “do you still want to go with me? Haven’t
got cold feet, have you?”
“Want to go with you?” repeated Willie. “Why, I was almost sick for
fear you had passed me up.”
Sheridan laughed. “I should have told you just when to expect me,”
he said. “But the fact is that a fellow in this business never knows
where he will be from hour to hour. However, I might have told you
that this auction was set for nine o’clock.”
“Auction!” cried Willie. “Aren’t we going after the wool smugglers?
I don’t want to go to any auction.”
“You will want to go to this one, all right. It’s going to be an
auction of bled wool.”
“An auction of bled wool! What do you mean? Has it anything to do
with those smuggling bargemen?”
“Everything. That’s the way they get rid of their wool. You see they
steal it while they are carrying it on their barges. The wool comes
into this port in great bales, weighing hundreds of pounds. A barge
is loaded with, say, five hundred bales of it. The barge captain
‘bleeds’ the bales. Perhaps he takes only a pound from each bale.
When he reaches his destination, he has to deliver the five hundred
bales. He does it, of course, but each bale is just a little short
in weight. Perhaps the bargeman has taken enough in all to make a
bale for himself.”
“I see,” said Willie. “And then he sells this stolen wool at
auction.”
“Exactly.”
“But who will buy it? People must know it is stolen.”
“Sure they know it. They buy it because they are dishonest, like the
bargeman himself.”
“But sooner or later some of them will be caught. Why do they run
the risk when they can buy wool that isn’t stolen?”
“They can get this cheaper. When wool comes into this country, the
importer has to pay a heavy duty or tax on every pound. On the
coarse wool that is used in making carpets he pays no duty at all;
but on finer grades he has to pay a heavy tax. The importer either
pays the duty outright, or has the wool put in a bonded warehouse,
where it is under control of the government, and pays the duty as he
takes it out. The wool carried by these barges is largely on its way
to bonded warehouses. No duty has been paid on it. So every time a
bale is bled, the government is cheated out of its revenue and the
owner loses his wool. The crooked wool merchants buy the stuff
because they can get it cheaper this way than they could if they
bought it from an honest dealer.”
“Shall we be going?” asked Willie, who was too impatient to delay
any longer.
Sheridan chuckled. “It’s easy to see you don’t have cold feet,” he
commented. “But we can’t go with you dressed up like that. Get on
those duds you got yesterday from the newsy.”
“Gee!” protested Willie. “Do I have to dust up my pants again?”
The Secret Service man laughed. “Get some overalls on board your
ship,” he advised.
Willie took a good look at his companion. In the dusk of the pier
shed, he had not noticed particularly how the detective was dressed.
Now he saw that he looked even more like a tramp than he had the
previous day. Willie raced back to the ship and laid the matter
before Roy, who speedily borrowed some overalls from a deckhand.
Even Willie had to laugh at himself when he got them on and looked
in a mirror. After he had turned up the legs several times, and
taken a reef in each shoulder strap, the things would stay on him,
but they fitted like a meal sack. He pulled on his ragged coat and
cap, and taking a last look at himself in the glass, called out,
“Now for the wool auction. Good-bye, Roy.”
By the time the two wool hunters had left the pier, it was dark.
Rapidly they made their way down West Street, for a distance, and
then they cut straight across the city. At some other time Willie
would have been glad to pause and look at the tower of the Woolworth
Building, now glowing like some fairy structure in the light of
myriads of concealed electric lamps, or to gaze at the lofty spire
of the Singer Building, or to study the great hulks of other huge
sky-scrapers. But now he had a mind for one thing only: he was
absorbed in thoughts of the wool auction.
Presently they approached the East River water-front. The Secret
Service man slowed down his pace until he was sauntering along like
a snail. So impatient was Willie that he could hardly keep with him.
He wanted to push ahead and get there.
“Just hold your horses,” said Sheridan. “This is a time when you
want to make haste slowly. Use your ears and eyes, keep your mouth
shut, and take it easy. Then you won’t blunder into something you
can’t get out of.”
They were now on South Street, and approaching the pier where Willie
had first seen his companion. He knew perfectly well where he was.
Few people were on the streets, though along the wharves little
knots of men had gathered here and there. Mostly they were smoking
and sprawled at ease on string-pieces or in doorways. Nobody seemed
to pay any attention to Willie and his companion.
“They are going to hold this auction on the pier where I met you,”
said Sheridan in a low voice. “We are near it now, and you can see a
number of men gathered there. I suppose old Larsen—he’s the fellow
with the wool to sell—will hold his little show out near the end of
the pier. There’s less likelihood of discovery there. Also, it’s
easier to throw overboard anybody who interferes.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Willie.
“We’ll have to keep out of sight until the gang begins to collect on
the end of the pier. It will be pretty dark by that time, and we can
probably join the group without attracting attention. But it won’t
do for us to go together.”
It had never occurred to Willie that he might have to act alone, and
he did not relish the idea of being left wholly to his own
resources, on that dark pier, among these rough men. But he said
quietly, “I’ll do just what you tell me to.”
“I don’t know exactly what to tell you,” replied the Secret Service
man. “Boys aren’t supposed to be in on this game. If they notice you
they may throw you out. You’ll just have to act like a street urchin
and take what comes. But if they do order you off the pier, you’d
better go quick. Otherwise you might get hurt. I can’t interfere for
you. To do that might spoil my whole game.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Willie, looking very sober.
“If they do run you out, just hang around and try to see all you
can. I might need you before we are done with this. There’s no
telling. This isn’t a Sunday-school class we are going to,
remember.”
“You can depend upon me,” said Willie.
“All right then. You go on down the street. I’ll hang around here
for a while. Remember, we don’t know each other, and we have never
seen each other before.”
“All right. Good-bye.” And Willie went on down the street, while
Sheridan turned into a cigar store to buy some tobacco.
After Willie had walked several blocks he turned about and started
back. He thought it must be nearly time for the auction to begin,
and when he looked up the street toward the public pier, he was sure
of it. No longer could he see men grouped on the street there. Again
he felt the desire to run, that had mastered him on the preceding
day. But this time he mastered it, and sauntered slowly along. When
he came near the pier, he could see that the shoreward end of it was
deserted, while a mass of black figures was dimly discernible at the
far end. Fortunately there was no electric light immediately in
front of this pier, and Willie slipped across the street, thankful
for the protecting darkness. Once on the pier, he made his way
quietly toward the circle of men. Unnoticed, he joined the group.
After a few moments, his eyes became accustomed to the unlighted
pier and he realized that it was not nearly so dark as he had
thought it was. He could make out the faces of those around him more
or less distinctly. He knew that his own could be as readily
distinguished. He pulled down his cap as far as he could and was in
high hopes of going unnoticed.
His hopes were in vain, however. For suddenly a rough voice spoke
out. “Well, we might as well get down to business. But first let’s
be sure that everybody’s all right in this crowd.”
The speaker was Larsen, the possessor of the stolen wool. He began
to move about among the gang, addressing now one, now another, by
name. Presently he boomed out, “Who the deuce are you? I never seen
you before.”
Sheridan’s voice replied, and Willie held his breath while he heard
the Secret Service man reply in an unconcerned tone of voice: “Who?
Me? Why, I’m Mike Carola, a junkie from Greenpoint.”
Apparently Larsen was satisfied. He continued his inspection of the
crowd. Willie tried to avoid observation, but Larsen’s eagle eye
spotted him.
“What the deuce you doin’ here?” he cried with an oath. “Kids ain’t
allowed here. Get off this pier, and be quick about it, too.”
Willie lost no time about going. But he stopped running the instant
he was off the pier. His heart was beating wildly, but he took a
grip on himself and presently returned to the street end of the
pier. Not so very far from the group of men were stacked the boxes
among which Sheridan had been concealed the day before. Willie
slowly edged his way toward these boxes, and finally gained their
protection unobserved. Snuggled down among them he was safe from
discovery. He could hear most of what was said, for the gang soon
forgot their caution in the heat of competitive bidding. The auction
had started.
“Twenty-five cents,” was the first word Willie heard.
“Twenty-six,” another voice said.
“Raise you a cent,” came another voice.
“Twenty-eight,” said the first voice, after a short pause.
The bidding continued fairly brisk until forty cents was reached.
Then no more offers were forthcoming.
Larsen swore roundly. “What do you take me for? A sucker?” he said.
“I can read the papers as well as anybody, and wool was selling for
fifty-five cents on the market to-day. You don’t get my wool for no
forty cents.”
“And we ain’t buyin’ no bled wool at market prices, neither,”
retorted a truculent voice. “The risk we have to take is worth the
difference in price. Forty cents is the limit. You can take that or
keep your wool.”
Larsen swore loudly. “You needn’t think you can put up no job on
me,” he said. “You know well enough the wool’s worth more than that.
If you fellows don’t want it, there’s others that do. And I can get
my price, too.”
“If them Secret Service guys don’t get it first,” said a voice with
a hint of threat in the tone. “Somebody’s liable to peach on you any
minute.”
“And if I found who done it,” said Larsen with another oath, “I’d
put him in the East River quick. That ain’t a safe game to play on
Andy Larsen.”
The voices had grown loud and threatening. “Shut up!” growled
somebody. “Do you want to draw all the cops on South Street?” For a
moment there was silence.
“Who takes my wool?” demanded Larsen. “Who’ll raise the ante?”
For a space there was no answer. Then Willie heard the voice of
Sheridan. “Give you forty-two.”
Evidently there had been an agreement among the prospective buyers,
as Larsen had suggested, for now an indignant murmur went up. “Who
is the guy?” Willie heard some one say.
“That junkie from Greenpoint,” came the answer, accompanied by an
oath.
“The wool is yours,” said Larsen. “The rest of you can go kick
yourselves.” And he gave a hoarse laugh. The combination against him
was beaten.
At once there was an outburst of angry voices. In the babel of sound
Willie could hardly distinguish one word from another, but he
understood that the crowd had turned on Sheridan. Willie’s heart
almost stood still with fear for his friend. Then above all the
noise rang out the voice of Larsen, bellowing a warning about “the
cops.” Instantly the clamor subsided, only to start again as the
crowd began to move toward the shore. Soon everybody was gone
excepting a few barge captains whose boats lay in the dock beside
the pier. They seemed to be cronies of Larsen’s.
Now Willie could hear plainly. Larsen was cursing the combination of
junkies that had tried to put up a game on him. Presently he stopped
swearing at them and turned to Sheridan, roughly inviting him to
come into the cabin of his boat to see the wool and pay for it. The
burly wool thief led the way, and Sheridan followed him without
hesitation. Willie breathed easy until the other boatmen followed
the barge captain and the Secret Service man over the side of the
pier. A moment later loud voices arose within the hull of the barge.
The sound of blows followed. Then all was still. Frightened, almost
terrified, Willie scrambled from his hiding-place and raced for
shore. He was certain Sheridan had been murdered.
Willie’s first impulse was to cry aloud for help. A second thought
sealed his lips. The crowd his cries would draw might finish him as
well as Sheridan: for the members of it would be friendly to Larsen.
It was better to find a policeman. Sheridan might not be dead yet,
and it might still be possible to save his life. But no policeman
was in sight. Willie reached the end of the pier and glanced
desperately up the street, then down. No bluecoat was to be seen.
Which way should he go for help? Involuntarily Willie faced south
and turned to his left. Then he ran south. He guessed wrong, for the
policeman he sought was at that moment at the northern extremity of
his beat. But Willie did not find it out until he had run far down
South Street. Then he turned and raced back.
As he approached the public pier again, he looked down its black
length, hoping against hope for some glimpse of his friend. Then he
stopped dead in his tracks, struck dumb with amazement. There were
Larsen and Sheridan, walking peaceably side by side, and just
emerging from the darkness of the unlighted pier. They crossed the
street and turned north. Willie followed close behind them. At the
first street light Sheridan stopped, said something to his
companion, and drew back his coat. Willie caught the gleam of a gold
badge on his vest. He heard Larsen bellow profanely, but before the
hulking bargeman could lift a finger, something shone in the light,
there was a sharp click, and a handcuff glittered on his wrist.
Then Willie heard Sheridan say: “Be quiet, Larsen, and come on. I’ve
got you right. If you try any monkey business, I’ll put a hole in
you quick.” And in another second a wicked-looking automatic gleamed
dully in Sheridan’s free hand.