[Footnote: From "Gallegher and Other Stories," by Richard Harding
Davis. Copyright, 1891, by Charles Scribner's Sons.]
We had had so many office-boys before Gallegher came among us that
they had begun to lose the characteristics of individuals, and
became merged in a composite photograph of small boys, to whom we
applied the generic title of "Here, you"; or "You, boy."
We had had sleepy boys, and lazy boys, and bright, "smart" boys,
who became so familiar on so short an acquaintance that we were
forced to part with them to save our own self-respect.
They generally graduated into district-messenger boys, and
occasionally returned to us in blue coats with nickel-plated
buttons, and patronized us.
But Gallegher was something different from anything we had
experienced before. Gallegher was short and broad in build, with a
solid, muscular broadness, and not a fat and dumpy shortness. He
wore perpetually on his face a happy and knowing smile, as if you
and the world in general were not impressing him as seriously as
you thought you were, and his eyes, which were very black and very
bright, snapped intelligently at you like those of a little black-
and-tan terrier.
All Gallegher knew had been learnt on the streets; not a very good
school in itself, but one that turns out very knowing scholars.
And Gallagher had attended both morning and evening sessions. He
could not tell you who the Pilgrim Fathers were, nor could he name
the thirteen original States, but he knew all the officers of the
twenty-second police district by name, and he could distinguish
the clang of a fire-engine's gong from that of a patrol-wagon or
an ambulance fully two blocks distant. It was Gallegher who rang
the alarm when the Woolwich Mills caught fire, while the officer
on the beat was asleep, and it was Gallegher who led the "Black
Diamonds" against the "Wharf Rats," when they used to stone each
other to their hearts' content on the coal-wharves of Richmond.
I am afraid, now that I see these facts written down, that
Gallegher was not a reputable character; but he was so very young
and so very old for his years that we all liked him very much
nevertheless. He lived in the extreme northern part of
Philadelphia, where the cotton-and woollen-mills run down to the
river, and how he ever got home after leaving the Press building
at two in the morning, was one of the mysteries of the office.
Sometimes he caught a night car, and sometimes he walked all the
way, arriving at the little house, where his mother and himself
lived alone, at four in the morning. Occasionally he was given a
ride on an early milk-cart, or on one of the newspaper delivery
wagons, with its high piles of papers still damp and sticky from
the press. He knew several drivers of "night hawks"--those cabs
that prowl the streets at night looking for belated passengers--
and when it was a very cold morning he would not go home at all,
but would crawl into one of these cabs and sleep, curled upon the
cushions, until daylight.
Besides being quick and cheerful, Gallegher possessed a power of
amusing the Press's young men to a degree seldom attained by the
ordinary mortal. His clog-dancing on the city editor's desk, when
that gentleman was upstairs fighting for two more columns of
space, was always a source of innocent joy to us, and his
imitations of the comedians of the variety halls delighted even
the dramatic critic, from whom the comedians themselves failed to
force a smile.
But Gallegher's chief characteristic was his love for that element
of news generically classed as "crime."
Not that he ever did anything criminal himself. On the contrary,
his was rather the work of the criminal specialist, and his morbid
interest in the doings of all queer characters, his knowledge of
their methods, their present whereabouts, and their past deeds of
transgression often rendered him a valuable ally to our police
reporter, whose daily feuilletons were the only portion of the
paper Gallegher deigned to read.
In Gallegher the detective element was abnormally developed. He
had shown this on several occasions, and to excellent purpose.
Once the paper had sent him into a Home for Destitute Orphans
which was believed to be grievously mismanaged, and Gallegher,
while playing the part of a destitute orphan, kept his eyes open
to what was going on around him so faithfully that the story he
told of the treatment meted out to the real orphans was sufficient
to rescue the unhappy little wretches from the individual who had
them in charge, and to have the individual himself sent to jail.
Gallegher's knowledge of the aliases, terms of imprisonment, and
various misdoings of the leading criminals in Philadelphia was
almost as thorough as that of the chief of police himself, and he
could tell to an hour when "Dutchy Mack" was to be let out of
prison, and could identify at a glance "Dick Oxford, confidence
man," as "Gentleman Dan, petty thief."
There were, at this time, only two pieces of news in any of the
papers. The least important of the two was the big fight between
the Champion of the United States and the Would-be Champion,
arranged to take place near Philadelphia; the second was the
Burrbank murder, which was filling space in newspapers all over
the world, from New York to Bombay.
Richard F. Burrbank was one of the most prominent of New York's
railroad lawyers; he was also, as a matter of course, an owner of
much railroad stock, and a very wealthy man. He had been spoken of
as a political possibility for many high offices, and, as the
counsel for a great railroad, was known even further than the
great railroad itself had stretched its system.
At six o 'clock one morning he was found by his butler lying at
the foot of the hall stairs with two pistol wounds above his
heart. He was quite dead. His safe, to which only he and his
secretary had the keys, was found open, and $200,000 in bonds,
stocks, and money, which had been placed there only the night
before, was found missing. The secretary was missing also. His
name was Stephen S. Hade, and his name and his description had
been telegraphed and cabled to all parts of the world. There was
enough circumstantial evidence to show, beyond any question or
possibility of mistake, that he was the murderer.
It made an enormous amount of talk, and unhappy individuals were
being arrested all over the country, and sent on to New York for
identification. Three had been arrested at Liverpool, and one man
just as he landed at Sydney, Australia. But so far the murderer
had escaped.
We were all talking about it one night, as everybody else was all
over the country, in the local room, and the city editor said it
was worth a fortune to any one who chanced to run across Hade and
succeeded in handing him over to the police. Some of us thought
Hade had taken passage from some one of the smaller seaports, and
others were of the opinion that he had buried himself in some
cheap lodging-house in New York, or in one of the smaller towns in
New Jersey.
"I shouldn't be surprised to meet him out walking, right here in
Philadelphia," said one of the staff. "He'll be disguised, of
course, but you could always tell him by the absence of the
trigger finger on his right hand. It's missing, you know; shot off
when he was a boy."
"You want to look for a man dressed like a tough," said the city
editor; "for as this fellow is to all appearances a gentleman, he
will try to look as little like a gentleman as possible."
"No, he won't," said Gallegher, with that calm impertinence that
made him dear to us. "He'll dress just like a gentleman. Toughs
don't wear gloves, and you see he's got to wear 'em. The first
thing he thought of after doing for Burrbank was of that gone
finger, and how he was to hide it. He stuffed the finger of that
glove with cotton so's to make it look like a whole finger, and
the first time he takes off that glove they've got him--see, and
he knows it. So what youse want to do is to look for a man with
gloves on. I've been a-doing it for two weeks now, and I can tell
you it's hard work, for everybody wears gloves this kind of
weather. But if you look long enough you'll find him. And when you
think it's him, go up to him and hold out your hand in a friendly
way, like a bunco-steerer, and shake his hand; and if you feel
that his forefinger ain't real flesh, but just wadded cotton, then
grip to it with your right and grab his throat with your left, and
holler for help."
There was an appreciative pause.
"I see, gentlemen," said the city editor, drily, "that Gallegher's
reasoning has impressed you; and I also see that before the week
is out all of my young men will be under bonds for assaulting
innocent pedestrians whose only offence is that they wear gloves
in mid-winter."
. . . . . . .
It was about a week after this that Detective Hefflefinger, of
Inspector Byrnes's staff, came over to Philadelphia after a
burglar, of whose whereabouts he had been misinformed by
telegraph. He brought the warrant, requisition, and other
necessary papers with him, but the burglar had flown. One of our
reporters had worked on a New York paper, and knew Hefflefinger,
and the detective came to the office to see if he could help him
in his so far unsuccessful search.
He gave Gallegher his card, and after Gallegher had read it, and
had discovered who the visitor was, he became so demoralized that
he was absolutely useless.
"One of Byrnes's men" was a much more awe-inspiring individual to
Gallegher than a member of the Cabinet. He accordingly seized his
hat and overcoat, and leaving his duties to be looked after by
others, hastened out after the object of his admiration, who found
his suggestions and knowledge of the city so valuable, and his
company so entertaining, that they became very intimate, and spent
the rest of the day together.
In the meanwhile the managing editor had instructed his
subordinates to inform Gallegher, when he condescended to return,
that his services were no longer needed. Gallegher had played
truant once too often. Unconscious of this, he remained with his
new friend until late the same evening, and started the next
afternoon toward the Press office.
As I have said, Gallegher lived in the most distant part of the
city, not many minutes' walk from the Kensington railroad station,
where trains ran into the suburbs and on to New York.
It was in front of this station that a smoothly-shaven, well-
dressed man brushed past Gallegher and hurried up the steps to the
ticket office.
He held a walking-stick in his right hand, and Gallegher, who now
patiently scrutinized the hands of every one who wore gloves, saw
that while three fingers of the man's hand were closed around the
cane, the fourth stood out in almost a straight line with his
palm.
Gallegher stopped with a gasp and with a trembling all over his
little body, and his brain asked with a throb if it could be
possible. But possibilities and probabilities were to be
discovered later. Now was the time for action.
He was after the man in a moment, hanging at his heels and his
eyes moist with excitement.
He heard the man ask for a ticket to Torresdale, a little station
just outside of Philadelphia, and when he was out of hearing, but
not out of sight, purchased one for the same place.
The stranger went into the smoking-car, and seated himself at one
end toward the door. Gallegher took his place at the opposite end.
He was trembling all over, and suffered from a slight feeling of
nausea. He guessed it came from fright, not of any bodily harm
that might come to him, but at the probability of failure in his
adventure and of its most momentous possibilities.
The stranger pulled his coat collar up around his ears, hiding the
lower portion of his face, but not concealing the resemblance in
his troubled eyes and close-shut lips to the likenesses of the
murderer Hade.
They reached Torresdale in half an hour, and the stranger,
alighting quickly, struck off at a rapid pace down the country
road leading to the station.
Gallegher gave him a hundred yards' start, and then followed
slowly after. The road ran between fields and past a few frame-
houses set far from the road in kitchen gardens.
Once or twice the man looked back over his shoulder, but he saw
only a dreary length of road with a small boy splashing through
the slush in the midst of it and stopping every now and again to
throw snowballs at belated sparrows.
After a ten minutes' walk the stranger turned into a side road
which led to only one place, the Eagle Inn, an old roadside
hostelry known now as the headquarters for pothunters from the
Philadelphia game market and the battle-ground of many a cock-
fight.
Gallegher knew the place well. He and his young companions had
often stopped there when out chestnutting on holidays in the
autumn.
The son of the man who kept it had often accompanied them on their
excursions, and though the boys of the city streets considered him
a dumb lout, they respected him somewhat owing to his inside
knowledge of dog-and cock-fights.
The stranger entered the inn at a side door, and Gallegher,
reaching it a few minutes later, let him go for the time being,
and set about finding his occasional playmate, young Keppler.
Keppler's offspring was found in the wood-shed.
"'Tain't hard to guess what brings you out here," said the tavern-
keeper's son, with a grin; "it's the fight."
"What fight?" asked Gallegher, unguardedly.
"What fight? Why, THE fight," returned his companion, with the
slow contempt of superior knowledge. "It's to come off here to-
night. You knew that as well as me; anyway your sportin' editor
knows it. He got the tip last night, but that won't help you any.
You needn't think there's any chance of your getting a peep at it.
Why, tickets is two hundred and fifty apiece!"
"Whew!" whistled Gallegher, "where's it to be?"
"In the barn," whispered Keppler. "I helped 'em fix the ropes this
morning, I did."
"Gosh, but you're in luck," exclaimed Gallegher, with flattering
envy. "Couldn't I jest get a peep at it?"
"Maybe," said the gratified Keppler. "There's a winder with a
wooden shutter at the back of the barn. You can get in by it, if
you have some one to boost you up to the sill."
"Sa-a-y," drawled Gallegher, as if something had but just that
moment reminded him. "Who's that gent who come down the road just
a bit ahead of me--him with the cape-coat! Has he got anything to
do with the fight?"
"Him?" repeated Keppler in tones of sincere disgust. "No--oh, he
ain't no sport. He's queer, Dad thinks. He come here one day last
week about ten in the morning, said his doctor told him to go out
'en the country for his health. He's stuck up and citified, and
wears gloves, and takes his meals private in his room, and all
that sort of truck. They was saying in the saloon last night that
they thought he was hiding from something, and Dad, just to try
him, asks him last night if he was coming to see the fight. He
looked sort of scared, and said he didn't want to see no fight.
And then Dad says, 'I guess you mean you don't want no fighters to
see you.' Dad didn't mean no harm by it, just passed it as a joke;
but Mr. Carleton, as he calls himself, got white as a ghost an'
says, 'I'll go to the fight willing enough,' and begins to laugh
and joke. And this morning he went right into the bar-room, where
all the sports were setting, and said he was going in to town to
see some friends; and as he starts off he laughs an' says, 'This
don't look as if I was afraid of seeing people, does it?' but Dad
says it was just bluff that made him do it, and Dad thinks that if
he hadn't said what he did, this Mr. Carleton wouldn't have left
his room at all."
Gallegher had got all he wanted, and much more than he had hoped
for--so much more that his walk back to the station was in the
nature of a triumphal march.
He had twenty minutes to wait for the next train, and it seemed an
hour. While waiting he sent a telegram to Hefflefinger at his
hotel. It read: "Your man is near the Torresdale station, on
Pennsylvania Railroad; take cab, and meet me at station. Wait
until I come. GALLEGHER."
With the exception of one at midnight, no other train stopped at
Torresdale that evening, hence the direction to take a cab.
The train to the city seemed to Gallegher to drag itself by
inches. It stopped and backed at purposeless intervals, waited for
an express to precede it, and dallied at stations, and when, at
last, it reached the terminus, Gallegher was out before it had
stopped and was in the cab and off on his way to the home of the
sporting editor.
The sporting editor was at dinner and came out in the hall to see
him, with his napkin in his hand. Gallegher explained breathlessly
that he had located the murderer for whom the police of two
continents were looking, and that he believed, in order to quiet
the suspicions of the people with whom he was hiding, that he
would be present at the fight that night.
The sporting editor led Gallegher into his library and shut the
door. "Now," he said, "go over all that again."
Gallegher went over it again in detail, and added how he had sent
for Hefflefinger to make the arrest in order that it might be kept
from the knowledge of the local police and from the Philadelphia
reporters.
"What I want Hefflefinger to do is to arrest Hade with the warrant
he has for the burglar," explained Gallegher; "and to take him on
to New York on the owl train that passes Torresdale at one. It
don't get to Jersey City until four o'clock, one hour after the
morning papers go to press. Of course, we must fix Hefflefinger
so's he'll keep quiet and not tell who his prisoner really is."
The sporting editor reached his hand out to pat Gallegher on the
head, but changed his mind and shook hands with him instead.
"My boy," he said, "you are an infant phenomenon. If I can pull
the rest of this thing off to-night, it will mean the $5,000
reward and fame galore for you and the paper. Now, I'm going to
write a note to the managing editor, and you can take it around to
him and tell him what you've done and what I am going to do, and
he'll take you back on the paper and raise your salary. Perhaps
you didn't know you've been discharged?"
"Do you think you ain't a-going to take me with you?" demanded
Gallegher.
"Why, certainly not. Why should I? It all lies with the detective
and myself now. You've done your share, and done it well. If the
man's caught, the reward's yours. But you'd only be in the way
now. You'd better go to the office and make your peace with the
chief."
"If the paper can get along without me, I can get along without
the old paper," said Gallegher, hotly. "And if I ain't a-going
with you, you ain't neither, for I know where Hefflefinger is to
be, and you don't, and I won't tell you."
"Oh, very well, very well," replied the sporting editor, weakly
capitulating. "I'll send the note by a messenger; only mind, if
you lose your place, don't blame me."
Gallegher wondered how this man could value a week's salary
against the excitement of seeing a noted criminal run down, and of
getting the news to the paper, and to that one paper alone.
From that moment the sporting editor sank in Gallegher's
estimation.
Mr. Dwyer sat down at his desk and scribbled off the following
note:
"I have received reliable information that Hade, the Burrbank
murderer, will be present at the fight to-night. We have arranged
it so that he will be arrested quietly and in such a manner that
the fact may be kept from all other papers. I need not point out
to you that this will be the most important piece of news in the
country to-morrow.
"Yours, etc.,
"MICHAEL E. DWYER."
The sporting editor stepped into the waiting cab, while Gallegher
whispered the directions to the driver. He was told to go first to
a district-messenger office, and from there up to the Ridge Avenue
Road, out Broad Street, and on to the old Eagle Inn, near
Torresdale.
It was a miserable night. The rain and snow were falling together,
and freezing as they fell. The sporting editor got out to send his
message to the Press office, and then lighting a cigar, and
turning up the collar of his great-coat, curled up in the corner
of the cab.
"Wake me when we get there, Gallegher," he said. He knew he had a
long ride, and much rapid work before him, and he was preparing
for the strain.
To Gallegher the idea of going to sleep seemed almost criminal.
From the dark corner of the cab his eyes shone with excitement,
and with the awful joy of anticipation. He glanced every now and
then to where the sporting editor's cigar shone in the darkness,
and watched it as it gradually burnt more dimly and went out. The
lights in the shop windows threw a broad glare across the ice on
the pavements, and the lights from the lamp-posts tossed the
distorted shadow of the cab, and the horse, and the motionless
driver, sometimes before and sometimes behind them.
After half an hour Gallegher slipped down to the bottom of the cab
and dragged out a lap-robe, in which he wrapped himself. It was
growing colder, and the damp, keen wind swept in through the
cracks until the window-frames and woodwork were cold to the
touch.
An hour passed, and the cab was still moving more slowly over the
rough surface of partly paved streets, and by single rows of new
houses standing at different angles to each other in fields
covered with ash-heaps and brick-kilns. Here and there the gaudy
lights of a drug-store, and the forerunner of suburban
civilization, shone from the end of a new block of houses, and the
rubber cape of an occasional policeman showed in the light of the
lamp-post that he hugged for comfort.
Then even the houses disappeared, and the cab dragged its way
between truck farms, with desolate-looking, glass-covered beds,
and pools of water, half-caked with ice, and bare trees, and
interminable fences.
Once or twice the cab stopped altogether, and Gallegher could hear
the driver swearing to himself, or at the horse, or the roads. At
last they drew up before the station at Torresdale. It was quite
deserted, and only a single light cut a swath in the darkness and
showed a portion of the platform, the ties, and the rails
glistening in the rain. They walked twice past the light before a
figure stepped out of the shadow and greeted them cautiously.
"I am Mr. Dwyer, of the Press," said the sporting editor, briskly.
"You've heard of me, perhaps. Well, there shouldn't be any
difficulty in our making a deal, should there? This boy here has
found Hade, and we have reason to believe he will be among the
spectators at the fight to-night. We want you to arrest him
quietly, and as secretly as possible. You can do it with your
papers and your badge easily enough. We want you to pretend that
you believe he is this burglar you came over after. If you will do
this, and take him away without any one so much as suspecting who
he really is, and on the train that passes here at 1.20 for New
York, we will give you $500 out of the $5,000 reward. If, however,
one other paper, either in New York or Philadelphia, or anywhere
else, knows of the arrest, you won't get a cent. Now, what do you
say?"
The detective had a great deal to say. He wasn't at all sure the
man Gallegher suspected was Hade; he feared he might get himself
into trouble by making a false arrest, and if it should be the
man, he was afraid the local police would interfere.
"We've no time to argue or debate this matter," said Dwyer,
warmly. "We agree to point Hade out to you in the crowd. After the
fight is over you arrest him as we have directed, and you get the
money and the credit of the arrest. If you don't like this, I will
arrest the man myself, and have him driven to town, with a pistol
for a warrant."
Hefflefinger considered in silence and then agreed
unconditionally. "As you say, Mr. Dwyer," he returned. "I've heard
of you for a thoroughbred sport. I know you'll do what you say
you'll do; and as for me I'll do what you say and just as you say,
and it's a very pretty piece of work as it stands."
They all stepped back into the cab, and then it was that they were
met by a fresh difficulty, how to get the detective into the barn
where the fight was to take place, for neither of the two men had
$250 to pay for his admittance.
But this was overcome when Gallegher remembered the window of
which young Keppler had told him.
In the event of Hade's losing courage and not daring to show
himself in the crowd around the ring, it was agreed that Dwyer
should come to the barn and warn Hefflefinger; but if he should
come, Dwyer was merely to keep near him and to signify by a
prearranged gesture which one of the crowd he was.
They drew up before a great black shadow of a house, dark,
forbidding, and apparently deserted. But at the sound of the
wheels on the gravel the door opened, letting out a stream of
warm, cheerful light, and a man's voice said, "Put out those
lights. Don't youse know no better than that?" This was Keppler,
and he welcomed Mr. Dwyer with effusive courtesy.
The two men showed in the stream of light, and the door closed on
them, leaving the house as it was at first, black and silent, save
for the dripping of the rain and snow from the eaves.
The detective and Gallegher put out the cab's lamps and led the
horse toward a long, low shed in the rear of the yard, which they
now noticed was almost filled with teams of many different makes,
from the Hobson's choice of a livery stable to the brougham of the
man about town.
"No," said Gallegher, as the cabman stopped to hitch the horse
beside the others, "we want it nearest that lower gate. When we
newspaper men leave this place we'll leave it in a hurry, and the
man who is nearest town is likely to get there first. You won't be
a-following of no hearse when you make your return trip."
Gallegher tied the horse to the very gate-post itself, leaving the
gate open and allowing a clear road and a flying start for the
prospective race to Newspaper Row.
The driver disappeared under the shelter of the porch, and
Gallegher and the detective moved off cautiously to the rear of
the barn. "This must be the window," said Hefflefinger, pointing
to a broad wooden shutter some feet from the ground.
"Just you give me a boost once, and I'll get that open in a
jiffy," said Gallegher.
The detective placed his hands on his knees, and Gallegher stood
upon his shoulders, and with the blade of his knife lifted the
wooden button that fastened the window on the inside, and pulled
the shutter open.
Then he put one leg inside over the sill, and leaning down helped
to draw his fellow-conspirator up to a level with the window. "I
feel just like I was burglarizing a house," chuckled Gallegher, as
he dropped noiselessly to the floor below and refastened the
shutter. The barn was a large one, with a row of stalls on either
side in which horses and cows were dozing. There was a haymow over
each row of stalls, and at one end of the barn a number of fence-
rails had been thrown across from one mow to the other. These
rails were covered with hay.
In the middle of the floor was the ring. It was not really a ring,
but a square, with wooden posts at its four corners through which
ran a heavy rope. The space inclosed by the rope was covered with
sawdust.
Gallegher could not resist stepping into the ring, and after
stamping the sawdust once or twice, as if to assure himself that
he was really there, began dancing around it, and indulging in
such a remarkable series of fistic manoeuvres with an imaginary
adversary that the unimaginative detective precipitately backed
into a corner of the barn.
"Now, then," said Gallegher, having apparently vanquished his foe,
"you come with me." His companion followed quickly as Gallegher
climbed to one of the haymows, and crawling carefully out on the
fence-rail, stretched himself at full length, face downward. In
this position, by moving the straw a little, he could look down,
without being himself seen, upon the heads of whomsoever stood
below. "This is better'n a private box, ain't it?" said Gallegher.
The boy from the newspaper office and the detective lay there in
silence, biting at straws and tossing anxiously on their
comfortable bed.
It seemed fully two hours before they came. Gallegher had listened
without breathing, and with every muscle on a strain, at least a
dozen times, when some movement in the yard had led him to believe
that they were at the door.
And he had numerous doubts and fears. Sometimes it was that the
police had learnt of the fight, and had raided Keppler's in his
absence, and again it was that the fight had been postponed, or,
worst of all, that it would be put off until so late that Mr.
Dwyer could not get back in time for the last edition of the
paper. Their coming, when at last they came, was heralded by an
advance-guard of two sporting men, who stationed themselves at
either side of the big door.
"Hurry up, now, gents," one of the men said with a shiver, "don't
keep this door open no longer'n is needful."
It was not a very large crowd, but it was wonderfully well
selected. It ran, in the majority of its component parts, to heavy
white coats with pearl buttons. The white coats were shouldered by
long blue coats with astrakhan fur trimmings, the wearers of which
preserved a cliqueness not remarkable when one considers that they
believed every one else present to be either a crook or a prize-
fighter.
There were well-fed, well-groomed clubmen and brokers in the
crowd, a politician or two, a popular comedian with his manager,
amateur boxers from the athletic clubs, and quiet, close-mouthed
sporting men from every city in the country. Their names if
printed in the papers would have been as familiar as the types of
the papers themselves.
And among these men, whose only thought was of the brutal sport to
come, was Hade, with Dwyer standing at ease at his shoulder,--
Hade, white, and visibly in deep anxiety, hiding his pale face
beneath a cloth travelling-cap, and with his chin muffled in a
woollen scarf. He had dared to come because he feared his danger
from the already suspicious Keppler was less than if he stayed
away. And so he was there, hovering restlessly on the border of
the crowd, feeling his danger and sick with fear.
When Hefflefinger first saw him he started up on his hands and
elbows and made a movement forward as if he would leap down then
and there and carry off his prisoner single-handed.
"Lie down," growled Gallegher; "an officer of any sort wouldn't
live three minutes in that crowd."
The detective drew back slowly and buried himself again in the
straw, but never once through the long fight which followed did
his eyes leave the person of the murderer. The newspaper men took
their places in the foremost row close around the ring, and kept
looking at their watches and begging the master of ceremonies to
"shake it up, do."
There was a great deal of betting, and all of the men handled the
great roll of bills they wagered with a flippant recklessness
which could only be accounted for in Gallegher's mind by temporary
mental derangement. Some one pulled a box out into the ring and
the master of ceremonies mounted it, and pointed out in forcible
language that as they were almost all already under bonds to keep
the peace, it behooved all to curb their excitement and to
maintain a severe silence, unless they wanted to bring the police
upon them and have themselves "sent down" for a year or two.
Then two very disreputable-looking persons tossed their respective
principals' high hats into the ring, and the crowd, recognizing in
this relic of the days when brave knights threw down their
gauntlets in the lists as only a sign that the fight was about to
begin, cheered tumultuously.
This was followed by a sudden surging forward, and a mutter of
admiration much more flattering than the cheers had been, when the
principals followed their hats, and slipping out of their great-
coats, stood forth in all the physical beauty of the perfect
brute.
Their pink skin was as soft and healthy-looking as a baby's, and
glowed in the lights of the lanterns like tinted ivory, and
underneath this silken covering the great biceps and muscles moved
in and out and looked like the coils of a snake around the branch
of a tree.
Gentleman and blackguard shouldered each other for a nearer view;
the coachmen, whose metal buttons were unpleasantly suggestive of
police, put their hands, in the excitement of the moment, on the
shoulders of their masters; the perspiration stood out in great
drops on the foreheads of the backers, and the newspaper men bit
somewhat nervously at the ends of their pencils.
And in the stalls the cows munched contentedly at their cuds and
gazed with gentle curiosity at their two fellow-brutes, who stood
waiting the signal to fall upon, and kill each other if need be,
for the delectation of their brothers.
"Take your places," commanded the master of ceremonies.
In the moment in which the two men faced each other the crowd
became so still that, save for the beating of the rain upon the
shingled roof and the stamping of a horse in one of the stalls,
the place was as silent as a church.
"Time!" shouted the master of ceremonies.
The two men sprang into a posture of defence, which was lost as
quickly as it was taken, one great arm shot out like a piston-rod;
there was the sound of bare fists beating on naked flesh; there
was an exultant indrawn gasp of savage pleasure and relief from
the crowd, and the great fight had begun.
How the fortunes of war rose and fell, and changed and rechanged
that night, is an old story to those who listen to such stories;
and those who do not will be glad to be spared the telling of it.
It was, they say, one of the bitterest fights between two men that
this country has ever known.
But all that is of interest here is that after an hour of this
desperate brutal business the champion ceased to be the favorite;
the man whom he had taunted and bullied, and for whom the public
had but little sympathy, was proving himself a likely winner, and
under his cruel blows, as sharp and clean as those from a cutlass,
his opponent was rapidly giving way.
The men about the ropes were past all control now; they drowned
Keppler's petitions for silence with oaths and in inarticulate
shouts of anger, as if the blows had fallen upon them, and in mad
rejoicings. They swept from one end of the ring to the other, with
every muscle leaping in unison with those of the man they favored,
and when a New York correspondent muttered over his shoulder that
this would be the biggest sporting surprise since the Heenan-
Sayers fight, Mr. Dwyer nodded his head sympathetically in assent.
In the excitement and tumult it is doubtful if any heard the three
quickly repeated blows that fell heavily from the outside upon the
big doors of the barn. If they did, it was already too late to
mend matters, for the door fell, torn from its hinges, and as it
fell a captain of police sprang into the light from out of the
storm, with his lieutenants and their men crowding close at his
shoulder.
In the panic and stampede that followed, several of the men stood
as helplessly immovable as though they had seen a ghost; others
made a mad rush into the arms of the officers and were beaten back
against the ropes of the ring; others dived headlong into the
stalls, among the horses and cattle, and still others shoved the
rolls of money they held into the hands of the police and begged
like children to be allowed to escape.
The instant the door fell and the raid was declared Hefflefinger
slipped over the cross rails on which he had been lying, hung for
an instant by his hands, and then dropped into the centre of the
fighting mob on the floor. He was out of it in an instant with the
agility of a pickpocket, was across the room and at Hade's throat
like a dog. The murderer, for the moment, was the calmer man of
the two.
"Here," he panted, "hands off, now. There's no need for all this
violence. There's no great harm in looking at a fight, is there?
There's a hundred-dollar bill in my right hand; take it and let me
slip out of this. No one is looking. Here."
But the detective only held him the closer.
"I want you for burglary," he whispered under his breath. "You've
got to come with me now, and quick. The less fuss you make, the
better for both of us. If you don't know who I am, you can feel my
badge under my coat there. I've got the authority. It's all
regular, and when we're out of this d---d row I'll show you the
papers."
He took one hand from Hade's throat and pulled a pair of handcuffs
from his pocket.
"It's a mistake. This is an outrage," gasped the murderer, white
and trembling, but dreadfully alive and desperate for his liberty.
"Let me go, I tell you! Take your hands off of me! Do I look like
a burglar, you fool?"
"I know who you look like," whispered the detective, with his face
close to the face of his prisoner. "Now, will you go easy as a
burglar, or shall I tell these men who you are and what I DO want
you for? Shall I call out your real name or not? Shall I tell
them? Quick, speak up; shall I?"
There was something so exultant--something so unnecessarily savage
in the officer's face that the man he held saw that the detective
knew him for what he really was, and the hands that had held his
throat slipped down around his shoulders, or he would have fallen.
The man's eyes opened and closed again, and he swayed weakly
backward and forward, and choked as if his throat were dry and
burning. Even to such a hardened connoisseur in crime as
Gallegher, who stood closely by, drinking it in, there was
something so abject in the man's terror that he regarded him with
what was almost a touch of pity.
"For God's sake," Hade begged, "let me go. Come with me to my room
and I'll give you half the money. I'll divide with you fairly. We
can both get away. There's a fortune for both of us there. We both
can get away. You'll be rich for life. Do you understand--for
life!"
But the detective, to his credit, only shut his lips the tighter.
"That's enough," he whispered, in return. "That's more than I
expected. You've sentenced yourself already. Come!"
Two officers in uniform barred their exit at the door, but
Hefflefinger smiled easily and showed his badge.
"One of Byrnes's men," he said, in explanation; "came over
expressly to take this chap. He's a burglar; 'Arlie' Lane, alias
Carleton. I've shown the papers to the captain. It's all regular.
I'm just going to get his traps at the hotel and walk him over to
the station. I guess we'll push right on to New York tonight."
The officers nodded and smiled their admiration for the
representative of what is, perhaps, the best detective force in
the world, and let him pass.
Then Hefflefinger turned and spoke to Gallegher, who still stood
as watchful as a dog at his side. "I'm going to his room to get
the bonds and stuff," he whispered; "then I'll march him to the
station and take that train. I've done my share; don't forget
yours!"
"Oh, you'll get your money right enough," said Gallegher. "And,
sa-ay," he added, with the appreciative nod of an expert, "do you
know, you did it rather well."
Mr. Dwyer had been writing while the raid was settling down, as he
had been writing while waiting for the fight to begin. Now he
walked over to where the other correspondents stood in angry
conclave.
The newspaper men had informed the officers who hemmed them in
that they represented the principal papers of the country, and
were expostulating vigorously with the captain, who had planned
the raid, and who declared they were under arrest.
"Don't be an ass, Scott," said Mr. Dwyer, who was too excited to
be polite or politic. "You know our being here isn't a matter of
choice. We came here on business, as you did, and you've no right
to hold us."
"If we don't get our stuff on the wire at once," protested a New
York man, "we'll be too late for tomorrow's paper, and--"
Captain Scott said he did not care a profanely small amount for
to-morrow's paper, and that all he knew was that to the station-
house the newspaper men would go. There they would have a hearing,
and if the magistrate chose to let them off, that was the
magistrate's business, but that his duty was to take them into
custody.
"But then it will be too late, don't you understand?" shouted Mr.
Dwyer. "You've got to let us go NOW, at once."
"I can't do it, Mr. Dwyer," said the captain, "and that's all
there is to it. Why, haven't I just sent the president of the
Junior Republican Club to the patrol-wagon, the man that put this
coat on me, and do you think I can let you fellows go after that?
You were all put under bonds to keep the peace not three days ago,
and here you're at it--fighting like badgers. It's worth my place
to let one of you off."
What Mr. Dwyer said next was so uncomplimentary to the gallant
Captain Scott that that overwrought individual seized the sporting
editor by the shoulder, and shoved him into the hands of two of
his men.
This was more than the distinguished Mr. Dwyer could brook, and he
excitedly raised his hand in resistance. But before he had time to
do anything foolish his wrist was gripped by one strong, little
hand, and he was conscious that another was picking the pocket of
his great-coat.
He slapped his hands to his sides, and looking down, saw Gallegher
standing close behind him and holding him by the wrist. Mr. Dwyer
had forgotten the boy's existence, and would have spoken sharply
if something in Gallegher's innocent eyes had not stopped him.
Gallegher's hand was still in that pocket, in which Mr. Dwyer had
shoved his note-book filled with what he had written of
Gallegher's work and Hade's final capture, and with a running
descriptive account of the fight. With his eyes fixed on Mr.
Dwyer, Gallegher drew it out, and with a quick movement shoved it
inside his waistcoat. Mr. Dwyer gave a nod of comprehension. Then
glancing at his two guardsmen, and finding that they were still
interested in the wordy battle of the correspondents with their
chief, and had seen nothing, he stooped and whispered to
Gallegher: "The forms are locked at twenty minutes to three. If
you don't get there by that time it will be of no use, but if
you're on time you'll beat the town--and the country too."
Gallegher's eyes flashed significantly, and nodding his head to
show he understood, started boldly on a run toward the door. But
the officers who guarded it brought him to an abrupt halt, and,
much to Mr. Dwyer's astonishment, drew from him what was
apparently a torrent of tears.
"Let me go to me father. I want me father," the boy shrieked,
hysterically. "They've 'rested father. Oh, daddy, daddy. They're
a-goin' to take you to prison."
"Who is your father, sonny?" asked one of the guardians of the
gate.
"Keppler's me father," sobbed Gallegher. "They're a-goin' to lock
him up, and I'll never see him no more."
"Oh, yes, you will," said the officer, good-naturedly; "he's there
in that first patrol-wagon. You can run over and say good-night to
him, and then you'd better get to bed. This ain't no place for
kids of your age."
"Thank you, sir," sniffed Gallegher, tearfully, as the two
officers raised their clubs, and let him pass out into the
darkness.
The yard outside was in a tumult, horses were stamping, and
plunging, and backing the carriages into one another; lights were
flashing from every window of what had been apparently an
uninhabited house, and the voices of the prisoners were still
raised in angry expostulation.
Three police patrol-wagons were moving about the yard, filled with
unwilling passengers, who sat or stood, packed together like
sheep, and with no protection from the sleet and rain.
Gallegher stole off into a dark corner, and watched the scene
until his eyesight became familiar with the position of the land.
Then with his eyes fixed fearfully on the swinging light of a
lantern with which an officer was searching among the carriages,
he groped his way between horses' hoofs and behind the wheels of
carriages to the cab which he had himself placed at the
furthermost gate. It was still there, and the horse, as he had
left it, with its head turned toward the city. Gallegher opened
the big gate noiselessly, and worked nervously at the hitching
strap. The knot was covered with a thin coating of ice, and it was
several minutes before he could loosen it. But his teeth finally
pulled it apart, and with the reins in his hands he sprang upon
the wheel. And as he stood so, a shock of fear ran down his back
like an electric current, his breath left him, and he stood
immovable, gazing with wide eyes into the darkness.
The officer with the lantern had suddenly loomed up from behind a
carriage not fifty feet distant, and was standing perfectly still,
with his lantern held over his head, peering so directly toward
Gallegher that the boy felt that he must see him. Gallegher stood
with one foot on the hub of the wheel and with the other on the
box waiting to spring. It seemed a minute before either of them
moved, and then the officer took a step forward, and demanded
sternly, "Who is that? What are you doing there?"
There was no time for parley then. Gallegher felt that he had been
taken in the act, and that his only chance lay in open flight. He
leaped up on the box, pulling out the whip as he did so, and with
a quick sweep lashed the horse across the head and back. The
animal sprang forward with a snort, narrowly clearing the gate-
post, and plunged off into the darkness.
"Stop!" cried the officer.
So many of Gallegher's acquaintances among the 'longshoremen and
mill hands had been challenged in so much the same manner that
Gallegher knew what would probably follow if the challenge was
disregarded. So he slipped from his seat to the footboard below,
and ducked his head.
The three reports of a pistol, which rang out briskly from behind
him, proved that his early training had given him a valuable fund
of useful miscellaneous knowledge.
"Don't you be scared," he said, reassuringly, to the horse; "he's
firing in the air."
The pistol-shots were answered by the impatient clangor of a
patrol-wagon's gong, and glancing over his shoulder Gallegher saw
its red and green lanterns tossing from side to side and looking
in the darkness like the side-lights of a yacht plunging forward
in a storm.
"I hadn't bargained to race you against no patrol-wagons," said
Gallegher to his animal; "but if they want a race, we'll give them
a tough tussle for it, won't we?"
Philadelphia, lying four miles to the south, sent up a faint
yellow glow to the sky. It seemed very far away, and Gallegher's
braggadocio grew cold within him at the loneliness of his
adventure and the thought of the long ride before him.
It was still bitterly cold.
The rain and sleet beat through his clothes, and struck his skin
with a sharp chilling touch that set him trembling.
Even the thought of the overweighted patrol-wagon probably
sticking in the mud some safe distance in the rear, failed to
cheer him, and the excitement that had so far made him callous to
the cold died out and left him weaker and nervous.
But his horse was chilled with the long standing, and now leaped
eagerly forward, only too willing to warm the half-frozen blood in
its veins.
"You're a good beast," said Gallegher, plaintively. "You've got
more nerve than me. Don't you go back on me now. Mr. Dwyer says
we've got to beat the town." Gallegher had no idea what time it
was as he rode through the night, but he knew he would be able to
find out from a big clock over a manufactory at a point nearly
three-quarters of the distance from Keppler's to the goal.
He was still in the open country and driving recklessly, for he
knew the best part of his ride must be made outside the city
limits.
He raced between desolate-looking corn-fields with bare stalks and
patches of muddy earth rising above the thin covering of snow,
truck farms and brick-yards fell behind him on either side. It was
very lonely work, and once or twice the dogs ran yelping to the
gates and barked after him.
Part of his way lay parallel with the railroad tracks, and he
drove for some time beside long lines of freight and coal cars as
they stood resting for the night. The fantastic Queen Anne
suburban stations were dark and deserted, but in one or two of the
block-towers he could see the operators writing at their desks,
and the sight in some way comforted him.
Once he thought of stopping to get out the blanket in which he had
wrapped himself on the first trip, but he feared to spare the
time, and drove on with his teeth chattering and his shoulders
shaking with the cold.
He welcomed the first solitary row of darkened houses with a faint
cheer of recognition. The scattered lamp-posts lightened his
spirits, and even the badly paved streets rang under the beats of
his horse's feet like music. Great mills and manufactories, with
only a night-watchman's light in the lowest of their many stories,
began to take the place of the gloomy farmhouses and gaunt trees
that had startled him with their grotesque shapes. He had been
driving nearly an hour, he calculated, and in that time the rain
had changed to a wet snow, that fell heavily and clung to whatever
it touched. He passed block after block of trim workmen's houses,
as still and silent as the sleepers within them, and at last he
turned the horse's head into Broad Street, the city's great
thoroughfare, that stretches from its one end to the other and
cuts it evenly in two.
He was driving noiselessly over the snow and slush in the street,
with his thoughts bent only on the clockface he wished so much to
see, when a hoarse voice challenged him from the sidewalk. "Hey,
you, stop there, hold up!" said the voice.
Gallegher turned his head, and though he saw that the voice came
from under a policeman's helmet, his only answer was to hit his
horse sharply over the head with his whip and to urge it into a
gallop.
This, on his part, was followed by a sharp, shrill whistle from
the policeman. Another whistle answered it from a street-corner
one block ahead of him. "Whoa," said Gallegher, pulling on the
reins. "There's one too many of them," he added, in apologetic
explanation. The horse stopped, and stood, breathing heavily, with
great clouds of steam rising from its flanks.
"Why in hell didn't you stop when I told you to?" demanded the
voice, now close at the cab's side.
"I didn't hear you," returned Gallegher, sweetly. "But I heard you
whistle, and I heard your partner whistle, and I thought maybe it
was me you wanted to speak to, so I just stopped."
"You heard me well enough. Why aren't your lights lit?" demanded
the voice.
"Should I have 'em lit?" asked Gallegher, bending over and
regarding them with sudden interest.
"You know you should, and if you don't, you've no right to be
driving that cab. I don't believe you're the regular driver,
anyway. Where'd you get it?"
"It ain't my cab, of course," said Gallegher, with an easy laugh.
"It's Luke McGovern's. He left it outside Cronin's while he went
in to get a drink, and he took too much, and me father told me to
drive it round to the stable for him. I'm Cronin's son. McGovern
ain't in no condition to drive. You can see yourself how he's been
misusing the horse. He puts it up at Bachman's livery stable, and
I was just going around there now."
Gallegher's knowledge of the local celebrities of the district
confused the zealous officer of the peace. He surveyed the boy
with a steady stare that would have distressed a less skilful
liar, but Gallegher only shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if
from the cold, and waited with apparent indifference to what the
officer would say next.
In reality his heart was beating heavily against his side, and he
felt that if he was kept on a strain much longer he would give way
and break down. A second snow-covered form emerged suddenly from
the shadow of the houses.
"What is it, Reeder?" it asked.
"Oh, nothing much," replied the first officer. "This kid hadn't
any lamps lit, so I called to him to stop and he didn't do it, so
I whistled to you. It's all right, though. He's just taking it
round to Bachman's. Go ahead," he added, sulkily.
"Get up!" chirped Gallegher. "Good-night," he added, over his
shoulder.
Gallegher gave an hysterical little gasp of relief as he trotted
away from the two policemen, and poured bitter maledictions on
their heads for two meddling fools as he went.
"They might as well kill a man as scare him to death," he said,
with an attempt to get back to his customary flippancy. But the
effort was somewhat pitiful, and he felt guiltily conscious that a
salt, warm tear was creeping slowly down his face, and that a lump
that would not keep down was rising in his throat.
"'Tain't no fair thing for the whole police force to keep worrying
at a little boy like me," he said, in shame-faced apology. "I'm
not doing nothing wrong, and I'm half froze to death, and yet they
keep a-nagging at me."
It was so cold that when the boy stamped his feet against the
footboard to keep them warm, sharp pains shot up through his body,
and when he beat his arms about his shoulders, as he had seen real
cabmen do, the blood in his finger-tips tingled so acutely that he
cried aloud with the pain.
He had often been up that late before, but he had never felt so
sleepy. It was as if some one was pressing a sponge heavy with
chloroform near his face, and he could not fight off the
drowsiness that lay hold of him.
He saw, dimly hanging above his head, a round disc of light that
seemed like a great moon, and which he finally guessed to be the
clock-face for which he had been on the lookout. He had passed it
before he realized this; but the fact stirred him into wakefulness
again, and when his cab's wheels slipped around the City Hall
corner, he remembered to look up at the other big clock-face that
keeps awake over the railroad station and measures out the night.
He gave a gasp of consternation when he saw that it was half-past
two, and that there was but ten minutes left to him. This, and the
many electric lights and the sight of the familiar pile of
buildings, startled him into a semi-consciousness of where he was
and how great was the necessity for haste.
He rose in his seat and called on the horse, and urged it into a
reckless gallop over the slippery asphalt. He considered nothing
else but speed, and looking neither to the left nor right dashed
off down Broad Street into Chestnut, where his course lay straight
away to the office, now only seven blocks distant.
Gallegher never knew how it began, but he was suddenly assaulted
by shouts on either side, his horse was thrown back on its
haunches, and he found two men in cabmen's livery hanging at its
head, and patting its sides, and calling it by name. And the other
cabmen who have their stand at the corner were swarming about the
carriage, all of them talking and swearing at once, and
gesticulating wildly with their whips.
They said they knew the cab was McGovern's and they wanted to know
where he was, and why he wasn't on it; they wanted to know where
Gallegher had stolen it, and why he had been such a fool as to
drive it into the arms of its owner's friends; they said that it
was about time that a cab-driver could get off his box to take a
drink without having his cab run away with, and some of them
called loudly for a policeman to take the young thief in charge.
Gallegher felt as if he had been suddenly dragged into
consciousness out of a bad dream, and stood for a second like a
half-awakened somnambulist.
They had stopped the cab under an electric light, and its glare
shone coldly down upon the trampled snow and the faces of the men
around him.
Gallegher bent forward, and lashed savagely at the horse with his
whip.
"Let me go," he shouted, as he tugged impotently at the reins.
"Let me go, I tell you. I haven't stole no cab, and you've got no
right to stop me. I only want to take it to the Press office," he
begged. "They'll send it back to you all right. They'll pay you
for the trip. I'm not running away with it. The driver's got the
collar--he's 'rested--and I'm only a-going to the Press office. Do
you hear me?" he cried, his voice rising and breaking in a shriek
of passion and disappointment. "I tell you to let go those reins.
Let me go, or I'll kill you. Do you hear me? I'll kill you." And
leaning forward, the boy struck savagely with his long whip at the
faces of the men about the horse's head.
Some one in the crowd reached up and caught him by the ankles, and
with a quick jerk pulled him off the box, and threw him on to the
street. But he was up on his knees in a moment, and caught at the
man's hand.
"Don't let them stop me, mister," he cried, "please let me go. I
didn't steal the cab, sir. S'help me, I didn't. I'm telling you
the truth. Take me to the Press office, and they'll prove it to
you. They'll pay you anything you ask 'em. It's only such a little
ways now, and I've come so far, sir. Please don't let them stop
me," he sobbed, clasping the man about the knees. "For Heaven's
sake, mister, let me go!"
. . . . . . .
The managing editor of the Press took up the india-rubber
speaking-tube at his side, and answered, "Not yet" to an inquiry
the night editor had already put to him five times within the last
twenty minutes.
Then he snapped the metal top of the tube impatiently, and went
upstairs. As he passed the door of the local room, he noticed that
the reporters had not gone home, but were sitting about on the
tables and chairs, waiting. They looked up inquiringly as he
passed, and the city editor asked, "Any news yet?" and the
managing editor shook his head.
The compositors were standing idle in the composing-room, and
their foreman was talking with the night editor.
"Well?" said that gentleman, tentatively.
"Well," returned the managing editor, "I don't think we can wait;
do you?"
"It's a half-hour after time now," said the night editor, "and
we'll miss the suburban trains if we hold the paper back any
longer. We can't afford to wait for a purely hypothetical story.
The chances are all against the fight's having taken place or this
Hade's having been arrested."
"But if we're beaten on it--" suggested the chief. "But I don't
think that is possible. If there were any story to print, Dwyer
would have had it here before now."
The managing editor looked steadily down at the floor.
"Very well," he said, slowly, "we won't wait any longer. Go
ahead," he added, turning to the foreman with a sigh of
reluctance. The foreman whirled himself about, and began to give
his orders; but the two editors still looked at each other
doubtfully.
As they stood so, there came a sudden shout and the sound of
people running to and fro in the reportorial rooms below. There
was the tramp of many footsteps on the stairs, and above the
confusion they heard the voice of the city editor telling some one
to "run to Madden's and get some brandy, quick."
No one in the composing-room said anything; but those compositors
who had started to go home began slipping off their overcoats, and
every one stood with his eyes fixed on the door.
It was kicked open from the outside, and in the doorway stood a
cab-driver and the city editor, supporting between them a pitiful
little figure of a boy, wet and miserable, and with the snow
melting on his clothes and running in little pools to the floor.
"Why, it's Gallegher," said the night editor, in a tone of the
keenest disappointment.
Gallegher shook himself free from his supporters, and took an
unsteady step forward, his fingers fumbling stiffly with the
buttons of his waistcoat.
"Mr. Dwyer, sir," he began faintly, with his eyes fixed fearfully
on the managing editor, "he got arrested--and I couldn't get here
no sooner, 'cause they kept a-stopping me, and they took me cab
from under me--but--" he pulled the note-book from his breast and
held it out with its covers damp and limp from the rain, "but we
got Hade, and here's Mr. Dwyer's copy."
And then he asked, with a queer note in his voice, partly of dread
and partly of hope, "Am I in time, sir?"
The managing editor took the book, and tossed it to the foreman,
who ripped out its leaves and dealt them out to his men as rapidly
as a gambler deals out cards.
Then the managing editor stooped and picked Gallegher up in his
arms, and, sitting down, began to unlace his wet and muddy shoes.
Gallegher made a faint effort to resist this degradation of the
managerial dignity; but his protest was a very feeble one, and his
head fell back heavily on the managing editor's shoulder.
To Gallegher the incandescent lights began to whirl about in
circles, and to burn in different colors; the faces of the
reporters kneeling before him and chafing his hands and feet grew
dim and unfamiliar, and the roar and rumble of the great presses
in the basement sounded far away, like the murmur of the sea.
And then the place and the circumstances of it came back to him
again sharply and with sudden vividness.
Gallegher looked up, with a faint smile, into the managing
editor's face. "You won't turn me off for running away, will you?"
he whispered.
The managing editor did not answer immediately. His head was bent,
and he was thinking, for some reason or other, of a little boy of
his own, at home in bed. Then he said, quietly, "Not this time,
Gallegher."
Gallegher's head sank back comfortably on the older man's
shoulder, and he smiled comprehensively at the faces of the young
men crowded around him. "You hadn't ought to," he said, with a
touch of his old impudence, "'cause--I beat the town."