WHAT WAS BEHIND THE FALSE PARTITION
Long before eight o’clock, Willie Brown, no longer arrayed in
overalls but dressed in his best, was at the place of rendezvous, at
Bowling Green. Sheridan was not yet there. Willie knew something of
the history of this tiny oval of grass, at the foot of Broadway, the
longest street in the world. And now, while he was waiting for the
Secret Service man he looked up that thoroughfare, which in ways
other than mere length has no counterpart in the earth. He could not
help thinking of the difference that three short centuries had made
in its appearance.
Now he was looking up a thoroughfare so narrow that six wagons
abreast filled it from curb to curb. Of course there were tiny side
streets, near at hand, like Petticoat Lane, in which two teams could
not pass each other. Indeed, one team practically occupied all that
roadway. And there were scores of streets all about him, crooked,
twisting little highways that originally were probably paths worn
through the brush by the cattle of the early Dutch settlers. But
Willie was facing up Broadway, the main artery of traffic for the
great metropolis. And though this street would have been plenty wide
enough for a country town, it was hopelessly inadequate for the
great city.
For on either hand, as far as he could see, rose the hugest
buildings in existence. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, and even fifty
stories, the various buildings towered aloft. More than one of the
colossal sky-scrapers housed ten thousand workers—a number of people
several times greater than the entire population of the town in
which Willie lived. And yet Broadway here was no wider than Main
Street in Central City. No wonder Broadway was so crowded, when
building after building poured out its thousands upon thousands of
workers into this one thoroughfare.
But all these majestic buildings, all these wondrous changes that
had altered lower Manhattan from a forested rocky island to a magic
city of cloud-touching structures, were not as remarkable as this
tiny oval of grass in which Willie stood. The remarkable thing about
this grass plot is that it is a grass plot. For three hundred years
one change has followed hard upon the heels of another about Bowling
Green. Yet Bowling Green is still Bowling Green, even as it was in
the days of old Peter Stuyvesant. A little smaller it is no doubt.
But it is still open and still softly carpeted with turf, even as it
was when those early Dutch settlers played at bowls on its well
cropped sward.
In imagination Willie could see them now, in their voluminous
knee-length breeches, rolling their wooden balls over the grass. And
the Custom-house that rose majestically across the street on the
site of the old Dutch fort became in Willie’s eyes the old fort
itself; with its great earthen walls so neglected by the placid
Dutch that their roving swine rooted holes entirely through them.
As he gazed at the marble statue of an early, Dutch city father,
within the little oval, he remembered that he had read that long
before it had been erected, there stood in this same Bowling Green
Park a leaden statue of George III, of England. And Willie recalled,
too, that a crowd of patriots, during the Revolution, had fastened
ropes to this statue, at a time when Washington was in sore need of
ammunition, and had pulled it down and melted it, and cast the
molten lead into bullets to teach that same George III a needed
lesson. And that thought recalled to mind another occurrence of
Revolutionary days that took place in this exact spot where he
stood. The iron-picketed fence that surrounds Bowling Green was
built in 1771, and each of the cast-iron posts bore on its summit a
royal coat of arms or some other royal insignia, that the patriots
did not like. And so, with hammers and axes, they knocked off these
offending finials. Plainly did the rough-topped supports show where
these offensive emblems had been broken away; and Willie had just
started to examine the telltale marks, when a voice said, “Hello,
youngster. I see you are getting well posted.”
“You’re mistaken,” laughed Willie. “I am doing picket duty.”
“Well, come along and we’ll do something that you will find more
interesting. We’ll have to hustle, too. So be brisk.”
The voice was familiar enough, but Willie hardly recognized the
well-dressed and really handsome man who was speaking to him. He had
never before seen Sheridan in anything but old clothes. After an
astonished look at him Willie leaped to join the Secret Service man.
But the latter, instead of starting for the waterfront, turned up
Broadway. A very short walk brought them to a towering
office-building into which the detective turned. Willie wondered,
but kept his peace. He was learning to use his mouth less and his
eyes and ears more.
They stepped into an express elevator and were shot upward to the
twenty-fifth floor. They walked down a long corridor and came to a
door which bore the name “Coastwise Steamship Company.” Willie was
glad that he had asked no questions. They entered the office, but
were held up by a pompous office boy, who demanded to know their
business. Willie’s companion took a card from his pocket and began
to write on it. Willie saw that the card was engraved with the name
of “Franklin P. Sheridan, United States Secret Service.” And on the
face of the card Sheridan wrote this message: “Would like to see Mr.
Morgan at once on a matter of importance.”
When the office boy looked at the card, his eyes nearly popped out
of his head. Willie heard him mutter to himself, “Gee! He’s a Secret
Service man!” The way the lad lost his dignity and bolted into Mr.
Morgan’s office made both Willie and his companion laugh. A moment
later the office boy came hustling out.
“Mr. Morgan wants to know if you will please step right in,” said
the lad who led the way and threw open the door for them. Then
reluctantly, and with many a backward glance, he withdrew.
Mr. Morgan rose to greet his visitors. “Mr. Sheridan?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. Morgan,” said the Secret Service man, taking the steamship
manager’s extended hand. “And this is my assistant, Mr. Willie
Brown.”
“Indeed!” said Mr. Morgan, with a world of astonishment in his tone.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Sheridan?”
“I have reason to think,” said the Secret Service man, “that the
captain of one of your lighters has some stolen cotton in his
possession. Have you carried any lately?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Morgan. “The lighter _Dixie_ has carried several
loads this week from one of our steamers to a New Haven Railway
pier.”
“That’s the very barge we had in mind,” said Sheridan.
“Have you examined her?” asked the steamship manager with interest.
“No; we haven’t been aboard of her at all. We didn’t want to do
anything to excite the suspicion of her captain. But we haven’t the
least doubt he has some stolen cotton in his possession, and if he
has, it is almost certainly in his lighter.”
“What makes you think so, if you haven’t been on board the boat? How
did you get track of the matter?”
“We owe it to my assistant here. We have been on the track of wool
thieves for some time. They steal the wool while it is being
conveyed to the bonded warehouses, you know. And so the owner loses
his property and Uncle Sam loses the revenue on the stolen wool. We
were nosing around in South Street last night, when my assistant
overheard a fellow say he had a jag of cotton to sell. We kept tabs
on the fellow and he proved to belong on the _Dixie_.”
“Aren’t those rather slender grounds on which to accuse a man of
theft?” said Mr. Morgan, a frown wrinkling his forehead. “I have no
doubt this fellow may have been stealing. We are losing property in
transit all the time. But we have enough trouble with our boatmen as
it is. I don’t want to accuse one of them of dishonesty unless we
can make good on the accusation.”
“We don’t have to accuse anybody of anything. Let’s go examine the
boat and see what’s in it.”
“But that would arouse suspicion.”
“Not a bit. I’m a prospective purchaser for the craft. You are the
seller. Of course I want to see what I’m going to buy, before I buy
it.”
“Of course,” said the steamship manager. “That’s as simple as can
be. What is the best way to get at it?”
“Better get the craft out in the river. Then we’ll have everything
at our mercy, including the captain.”
“To be sure. We’ll do it.” Mr. Morgan turned to his telephone and
gave a brusque order. Then he rose, put on his hat, and turned to
his stenographer. “I’ll be back in——” He appealed to Sheridan. “How
long?” he asked.
“An hour and a half. Maybe an hour, if we are not delayed,” replied
the Secret Service man.
“I’ll be back in an hour and a half, and perhaps sooner,” said Mr.
Morgan.
His stenographer nodded comprehension, and the three investigators
left the office. This time the office boy not only had his eyes
open, but his mouth as well. “Gee!” he muttered, “I wonder what’s
up.”
Straight across the island the three investigators went hustling. A
very few minutes brought them to the East River piers of the
Coastwise Steamship Company. A tug, with steam up, was moored at the
end of one of these piers. Through the great pier shed went Mr.
Morgan and his two companions. The executive nodded greetings to
employees as he went. Arrived at the end of the pier, the three
leaped aboard the tug.
“Good-morning, Mr. Morgan,” said the pilot. “Where do you want to
go?”
“Take us down to the pier where our lighters are. Make fast to the
_Dixie_ and take her out into the stream. You can pull down between
Governor’s Island and Brooklyn. This gentleman wants to examine that
boat.”
Lines were cast off, the pilot rang a bell, and the tug’s propeller
began to churn the water. Slowly the tug drew away from the pier. In
a very short time she was abreast of the barge wharf. The pilot
nosed his way in beside the Dixie. The latter’s captain was on her
deck.
“Catch these lines and make fast,” called a hand on the tug, as he
threw a hawser toward the _Dixie_.
The _Dixie’s_ captain caught it and made it fast. Then he caught and
fastened a second line forward.
“We’re going to pull down the river,” said the tug captain, leaning
out of the pilot-house. “Just cast off.”
The _Dixie’s_ captain drew in the lines that held the barge to the
pier. Mr. Morgan, followed by Sheridan and Willie, stepped from the
tug to the lighter.
“Your name is——” said Mr. Morgan, hesitating.
“Jensen,” replied the captain of the _Dixie_.
“Ah, yes. I had forgotten. Well, Jensen, this gentleman wants to buy
a lighter. We’d like to sell the _Dixie_. But he won’t take her
until he has looked her over well and seen how she behaves under
tow.”
“She’s a good boat,” said Jensen, with the customary pride of a
sailor in his craft. “There ain’t none better afloat.”
“I told him so, but he wants to be shown.”
“We’ll show him.”
Meantime the tug had gotten under way, and was drawing out of the
dock, with the _Dixie_ fast beside her. Once clear of the pier, her
captain turned down-stream.
Sheridan remained on deck for a time, apparently watching the
movement of the boat through the water. Then he turned to Jensen.
“How’s her cabin?” he asked.
“Snuggest little cabin on the East River,” replied Jensen. “Step in
and have a look.”
The inspecting party descended to the cabin. It was, indeed, snug
enough. Jensen had it in pretty tidy shape. There were bunks along
both sides and Jensen’s bed was made. He had a few articles of
clothing piled neatly in a vacant bunk. Sheridan walked about and
eyed everything keenly.
“Don’t you have any closets?” he asked. “A boat like this ought to
have closets.”
“Sure there’s closets,” and the sailor pointed to some partitions
that opened toward the hold of the barge. Sheridan peered into them
eagerly, but they were practically empty.
“What’s the size of this cabin?” he asked. “How big a family could
live in it? You know most boatmen are married and want to have their
families aboard with them.”
“It’s about twelve feet long,” said Jensen, “and the width of the
boat.”
“Now, there ought to be room for some closets in the stern,” said
Sheridan, “on either side of the companionway, between the cabin
wall and the hull itself.” He stooped down and keenly examined the
rear wall.
“There ain’t no closets there,” said Jensen, “and there ain’t no
room for any, neither. I tried one time to make a closet there.
Needed more storage room for myself. The cabin wall is right up
against the stern o’ the boat.”
Sheridan glanced expressively at Mr. Morgan, but said nothing.
Instead, he turned to the boatman. “How long is your craft over
all?” he asked.
“One hundred feet.”
“And you say this rear cabin wall is plumb against the boat’s hull?”
“Snug against it.”
“How deep are these closets here, forward?”
“About three feet. You can see for yourself.”
The Secret Service man drew a little searchlight from his vest
pocket and stooping, walked through one of the closet doors. He
produced a tape and measured the space. “Exactly three feet,” he
remarked.
“How much cargo can you carry?” he asked, suddenly shifting the
subject.
“A pile of it,” said Jensen. “She’ll carry more stuff than any boat
of her size in the harbor.”
“But I must know exactly.”
“I can’t tell you exactly.”
“Maybe I can figure it myself. Let’s take a look at the hold.”
The party came up from the cabin and went forward, dropping through
an open hatchway, inside the boat. The hold was bare and perfectly
clean. With his tape Sheridan rapidly measured the hold, beginning
at the bow and working back toward the cabin in the stern.
“Twenty-four feet wide and eighty-three feet long,” he said. He
paused a moment, figuring, “Twelve feet for the cabin, three for the
closets, and eighty-three for the cargo. That totals ninety-eight
feet. There are two feet of space unaccounted for. I don’t pay for
one hundred feet of boat if there’s only ninety-eight,” and again he
looked significantly at Mr. Morgan.
“What about that, Jensen?” asked the steamship manager. “Are you
sure this craft is one hundred feet long?”
“Come to think of it,” said the boatman uneasily, “it is only
ninety-eight feet. I got so used to thinkin’ it was about a hundred
that I just called it an even hundred. That’s all it is, sir,
ninety-eight feet.”
“Well, I’m going to make sure,” said Sheridan. “I don’t buy any boat
unless I know exactly what I’m getting.”
He climbed to the deck and rapidly measured. “She’s a hundred feet
exactly,” he said. And he turned on the boatman severely. “How do
you account for those two missing feet?” he demanded.
A crafty look came into Jensen’s eyes. “Two feet is it?” he said.
“Why, I just boarded a little space in the back of the hold to keep
my cabin warm.”
Once more Sheridan glanced at the steamship manager. “You didn’t
need to board up a space two feet wide to keep your cabin warm. Six
inches would have been plenty. Why, that cuts down the cargo space
tremendously. We’ll have to have that partition down. I want to know
exactly how much I can carry in this boat. And besides, there might
be some rotten planks in the hull in that two-foot space. I’d like
to look in there.”
“Tear out your partition,” said Mr. Morgan. “This man is entitled to
see every part of the boat before he buys her.”
“I ain’t got nothin’ to do it with,” said Jensen. “I’ll do it
to-night and he can have a look at her to-morrow.”
“That won’t do. I’ve got to choose between this boat and another
this very morning. Surely you’ve got a hatchet. What did you use to
put the partition up?”
“No, I ain’t got no hatchet,” replied Jensen, very sullenly.
Mr. Morgan stepped to the hatchway and called to a hand on the tug.
“Bring me an axe,” he said.
In a second the fellow dropped through the hatchway with an axe. Mr.
Morgan directed him to knock down the partition. The man from the
tug drove his axe blade between two of the partition boards and
pried one loose. Some tightly stuffed burlap bags promptly bulged
into the space he had opened. He tore off one board after another
and the bulging sacks came tumbling out on the floor of the lighter.
They were filled with cotton.
“What does this mean?” demanded Mr. Morgan, confronting the sullen
barge captain. “Where did this cotton come from and how did it get
behind this false partition?”
“I don’t know,” growled Jensen. “I never seen it before. I didn’t
know it was behind there.”
“See here, Jensen,” said Sheridan, stepping up to the boatman. “The
jig is up. You are under arrest for grand larceny,” and he threw
back his coat, displaying on his vest the glittering shield of the
Secret Service.
“I don’t know nothin’ about that cotton,” persisted Jensen.
“There’s no use lying about it,” said Sheridan sharply. “We’ve got
you dead to rights and you’ll go to prison as sure as you stand
here. None of that.”
He leaped forward, grabbed the boatman’s right hand, and whirled the
fellow around. From the man’s hip pocket he drew a loaded revolver.
Deftly he “frisked” his prisoner, and finding no other weapons on
him, let go of him.
“Now, Jensen,” he said, “we’ve got you right. You will only hurt
yourself by lying. You may help yourself if you tell the truth.
Where did this cotton come from?”
“From bales we carried to the New Haven pier.”
“When?”
“Just this week.”
“How much is there?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t weigh it.”
“But you have a pretty good idea of what it will weigh. What does
one of these bags weigh?”
“About seventy-five pounds, I guess,” replied Jensen.
Sheridan lifted a bag. “That’s a close guess,” he said. “We’ll call
it seventy-five, anyway.” Rapidly he counted the bags.
“Thirty-five,” he said. “That makes thirty-five times seventy-five.”
He stopped and made some figures on an old envelope. “Twenty-six
hundred and twenty-five pounds,” he said. “More than a ton and a
quarter of cotton, Mr. Morgan. That’s a little better than five
bales. It’s worth something more than $650 wholesale at present
prices. Have you had any complaints about loss of cotton?”
“Lots of them, but we have seldom been able to put our hands on the
thieves.”
“Let me suggest that you have every one of your lighters examined
and measured and all space accounted for. It might be worth your
while.”
Then Sheridan turned to Jensen once more. “Who helped you steal this
stuff?” he demanded.
“Nobody,” said Jensen gruffly.
“Come on, now. Cough up. Who’s in this with you?”
“Not a soul,” insisted Jensen.
“If you’re lying, we’ll find it out,” said Sheridan, “and it will go
all the harder with you.”
“Is there anything more you want to see, Mr. Sheridan?” asked the
steamship man.
“Not a thing. We’ve seen all there is to see.”
“Then we’ll head for shore.” He gave the signal to the tug’s pilot,
and in a few minutes, the party was once more ashore. Sheridan
slipped a pair of handcuffs on his prisoner.
“Young man,” said Mr. Morgan, turning to Willie, “I understand that
we are indebted to you for this discovery and very important arrest.
The continued loss of cotton has cost our line thousands of dollars
in damages. Come along to the office with me. I have something for
you.”
“If you mean money,” said Willie, “I cannot take it.”
“Why not? Is it against the rules of the Secret Service?”
“I don’t know,” replied Willie. “I don’t belong to the Secret
Service.”
“You don’t? Then what’s all this about your being Mr. Sheridan’s
assistant?”
“You’re perfectly free to take anything the gentleman wants to give
you,” remarked Sheridan, “but you would not be if you did belong to
the Service. No Secret Service man may accept a cent for any service
from any one but the government. And as for his being my assistant,
Mr. Morgan, it happens this way. This lad was coming along the
water-front when I was trailing wool smugglers. I needed to get a
message to my office badly, but I didn’t dare take my eyes off the
men I was trailing. I asked this lad to send a message for me. He
never saw me before and I never saw him. But it seems that he was
one of those four boys from Pennsylvania that helped to find that
German secret wireless station during the war.”
“I remember reading about it. So you were one of those boys, eh?”
“Yes, sir,” said Willie modestly.
“And so he knew the private call of the Secret Service,” went on
Sheridan. “When I gave him the number I wanted him to call up, he
knew right away that I was a Secret Service man. He delivered my
message in fine shape and then came back to help me, because he
found the office couldn’t do anything for me. We got the men I was
after, and a lot of smuggled wool too. And while we were working on
the case, this lad picked up the hint about your cotton here. So I
told him he might go with me when I went to look for the cotton.”
“Young man,” said Mr. Morgan, “the Coastwise Steamship Company is
really greatly indebted to you, and I wish you would let me give you
a little token of our appreciation.”
“I couldn’t do that,” insisted Willie. “I didn’t do it for money.”
“Then what did you do it for?”
“I did it to help Mr. Sheridan and because I want to learn all I can
about the Secret Service. I want to be a Secret Service man.”
“You’re certainly qualified to be one, and I hope you land a job
with the Service. Come see me if you don’t. There might be a stray
job in my office by that time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Morgan. I am obliged to you. But there isn’t
anything else I want to do so much as to be a Secret Service man.
Good-bye.”
The Secret Service man, meantime, had hustled away from the pier
with his prisoner as fast as he could go. He did not want to be seen
by any more longshoremen than he could help. But Willie knew where
he had gone, and after he had shaken hands with Mr. Morgan, he
hustled down the street after his friend. He reached the
police-station just as Sheridan was coming out of it. Sheridan was
smiling. Willie guessed it was because he had beaten the police.
“What next?” he asked.
“I guess we’ll go report to the Chief on these seizures,” Sheridan
said. “And I’ll do all I can to try to get you into the Service in
some capacity. You have proved your worth.”
“I’ll take any job I can get,” said Willie, “even to being an office
boy. And I’ll be glad to get the job.”
“Now you’re talking sense,” said Willie’s companion. “The way to get
into any place or any job is to get in. It doesn’t matter whether
you go in by the front door, or the kitchen door, or the cellar
door. Once you are inside, you can go pretty much where you like.
You may think that starting as an office boy in the Secret Service
is like coming in through the cellar door. Maybe it is. But the
point is that you are in. You can climb as fast as you have the
ability to. But you can’t ever get anywhere in the Secret Service as
long as you don’t belong to it—or in any other job, can you?”
“No,” agreed Willie. “I’ve been dead wrong about that notion. If I
can get an office boy job, I’ll be the happiest fellow in the
world.”
“You can get on the waiting list, and that’s sure. There may not be
any vacancy at the present time. At any rate, we’ll see what
happens. Come on.”