ON THE WATCH.
Sam Slade and Chip had been comrades at arms for almost two years. Many
a dashing capture had they made Adventures and hair-breadth escapes
were of frequent occurrence with the two "dare-devils," as the force
had dubbed them, and before now each had saved the other's life by some
bold stroke or skillful strategy.
Satisfied that Chip was in danger, if not of his life at least of his
liberty, Sam hastened to his room, and with the aid of soap and water
resumed his natural appearance. The jaunty-looking Irish lad, Barney
O'Hara, would never be recognized in the young gentleman who looked at
you through gold-rimmed spectacles, with soft gray eyes, and whose
sober demeanor and grave countenance bore the stamp of the student or
minister.
It was this metamorphized individual that walked languidly to the
breakfast table and responded in gentle tones to the woman's
salutations which greeted him. Breakfast served and over, Sam again
sought his room. His boarding-house had been selected entirely on
account of this room. The room had once been occupied by a physician as
his office, and, standing on the corner of two streets, had a side
entrance to it besides the entrance from the main portion of the house.
Thus the detective could slip in and out entirely unobserved by the
boarders or his landlady, the latter supposing him to be a man of
enough means to enable him to live without daily labor.
Sam had given her this idea, and supplemented it by stating he was
engaged in literary pursuits.
Reaching his room, Sam wrote out a full report for the last twenty-four
hours (this constituted his literary labors) to be forwarded to Mr.
Pinkerton in Chicago.
After his report was finished, he hastily threw off his clothing, and
replaced his sober suit of gray by the flashy costume of a man about
town, he stood before his mirror to make up his face.
No actor was more clever than Sam in artistic and realistic disguises.
His smooth face was skillfully covered by a beard, short-cropped, his
nose was given the slightest rosy tint, and putting on a light
overcoat, the studious young gentleman of half an hour ago was
transformed into a howling swell.
Tan-colored gloves and a heavy, silver-headed cane completed his
costume. Thus arrayed he sallied forth.
It was now nearly noon. The streets were crowded, and Sam kept his eyes
well opened, carelessly but keenly scrutinizing every man he met.
One saloon after another was visited, but no sight of the mysterious
men who had downed Chip could be obtained.
He had carefully noted his bearings when he left the alley in the
morning, so he had no trouble in finding the correct locality again.
His hat was tipped rakishly over his left eye as he swaggered up the
alley and entered a beer vault for which the alley was really the
entrance. By good luck, no customers were present, and Sam engaged in a
lively conversation with the bartender.
Skillful pumping, judiciously mixed with high-priced drinks, soon gave
Sam the entire history of the denizens of the locality.
It was beside the shed door of the beer vault that Sam had kept his
solitary watch and ward the previous night, so that somewhere about
this point Chip had been carried by his captors.
Gazing through the window, Sam saw a mass of debris; old cans, ashes
and the like were scattered in the center of the court or alley, while
on both sides, near the buildings, a narrow board walk was laid.
Now, Sam knew that when he entered the place he was on the right-hand
side, immediately behind his game.
If they had crossed over to the side on which the beer vault stood, the
crunching of the ashes or the noise of the old cans, which would be
very apt to be moved, would have advised him of that fact.
Putting these facts together, Sam was almost certain that they had not
entered the beer cellar.
Just opposite stood a half-open door, which, flush with the court,
would have accounted for the sudden disappearance of the men if they
had turned suddenly and entered it. These observations were made by the
detective while he was engaged in a lively and pungent conversation
with the burly bar-keeper.
The saloon made a good post of observation, and Sam settled himself for
an all-day patron if necessary. Taking a seat near the window, he
called for a glass of beer, and tilting back his chair took a careful
survey of the premises.
The alley was what is termed a "blind alley." On each side were low
doors entering the basements of the houses, and the population
consisted of rag-pickers, second-hand clothiers and one pawnshop. It
was just such a place as one would expect to meet the lowest types of
humanity. Dirty children were playing in the half-deserted place, their
blue lips and pinched faces speaking eloquently of their poverty.
Italian hand-organ grinders were sitting on their door-steps, and
slatternly women were leaning from their windows, exchanging gossip in
loud, shrill tones. Occasionally a man would walk hurriedly up the
narrow walk, carrying a suspicious bundle, and eyeing nervously every
person he might meet, dodging suddenly into some one of the doors. All
this Sam saw, but his eyes seldom left the half-open door immediately
opposite.
He had been at his post nearly an hour, smoking a cigar or supping his
liquor, the bar-keeper not caring what his customer did or what he was,
so long as he ordered and paid for an occasional drink, when there
appeared at the door of the house which the detective was so closely
watching a tall, dark-complexioned woman. Her eyes, strikingly
brilliant, swept the place, but the shadows of the beer-cellar
prevented her seeing the interested person who noted every movement she
made. The woman, after gazing up and down the court, threw her shawl
over her head, and with long, gliding steps, walked toward the street.
The bar-keeper who was standing beside Sam, as the female passed down
the court, said with an outward jerk of his thumb:
"Rum old gal that."
"Friend of yours?" lazily inquired the detective.
"Naw. I don't have nothin' to do with her, nor she with me. She's a
fortune-teller, she is."
"One of them kind that lays out the cards, and spells out your fortune,
eh?"
"I dunno. I never was in her den."
"Wonder if she could give me a luck charm?" asked Sam.
"If you've got the dust, she can make you anything. Them as lives
around here says she's a witch. Maybe so. I think she's some cursed
half-breed, myself. None too good now, I tell you."
"Lived here long?"
"Who? Me?"
"No, the woman."
"I've been here five years, and she was here before me."
"I suppose she has plenty of customers, eh?"
"You bet she has. The fool-killer ought to lay around here for a while.
There were two dandy blokes come out of there this morning."
Sam started, and inwardly cursed his stupidity in letting his game get
away from him. The two men of which the bar-keeper spoke, were probably
the very persons he wanted, so, in an indifferent tone, he inquired:
"What's her office hours?"
"Any time night or day I reckon. The two swells came out about 10, I
guess. Maybe later."
"She don't throw on much style?"
"Don't she though. Silks ain't nothin' to her. She's a clipper when she
agonizes."
Fearing, if he kept up the conversation much longer, that the
bar-keeper would suspect his game, Sam called for another cigar, and
picking up a deck of cards which lay on the table, suggested a game of
"seven up." The bar-keeper seated himself with his back to the window,
Sam still holding his post of survey.
The game was only just begun, when the fortune-teller, carrying a small
bottle, apparently of medicine, returned and entered the door.
Sam's interest in the game died out shortly after, and patrons
beginning to appear, the bar-keeper took his accustomed place behind
the bar.
The room gradually filled up, and taking advantage of a little crowd
near the door, Sam quietly slipped through the door and walked straight
across to the fortune-teller's house.
As he entered, the inner door was opened and the dark woman herself
appeared.
With inimitable assurance the detective removed his hat and advanced
toward her.
Drawing herself up to her full height, the sibyl in a deep, solemn
voice said:
"What brings you here?"
"I'm in hard luck. Got scooped up to the White Elephant and want you to
give me a luck charm."
The eyes of the hag glittered greedily as Sam held out a five-dollar
bill, and throwing the door wide open she bade him enter.
As Sam did so his experienced eye took in the whole room, the skull,
charts, bottles and even the cards did not escape his gaze.
Nance pushed forward a chair, and telling him under pain of breaking
the spell not to utter a word, she retired behind the curtain.
Left alone Sam took a more deliberate survey of the apartment and could
hardly repress an exclamation of satisfaction as he saw lying on the
floor the old slouch hat which Chip had worn the preceding day. His
face, however, showed nothing as Nance reappeared bearing in one hand a
peculiar lamp, scrolled and formed in a fanciful pattern and in the
other a large book bound in parchment, covered with hieroglyphics.
Putting the lamp on the table she extinguished the gas, and the
pale-blue flame of the alcohol in the lamp cast its ghastly beams over
the strange place.
Muttering rapidly to herself she threw powder on the flame, causing a
green flash to appear each time, with her eyes fastened on the open
pages of the book.
Amused at the hollow fraud, Sam looked on, very much interested and
racking his brain to devise some means of gaining a further entrance to
the house. From its outside appearance he knew he must be in one of the
rear rooms, and if Chip was not behind the curtain he must be in an
upper story. While he was thus occupied the fortune-teller had finished
her incantations, and, taking from a drawer a small amulet sewed in oil
skin, handed it to the detective.
"Take this, my son--the stars are auspicious. It will bring you and
keep near you good luck and high fortune. Now, depart in peace, for I
am weary and would fain seek rest."
His answer surprised her, for, rising abruptly, he struck a match, and,
lighting the gas jet, pushed aside the curtains.
With a scream of rage, Nance sprang forward.
"Go but another step, and I'll tear your heart out!"
Disregarding her, the detective pushed forward and threw open the door
leading to the ascending stairs.
In a trice he had mounted them and turning to the right, entered a
room. His astonishment was so great that he half stopped, for the
apartment was furnished in almost regal style; richly-upholstered
furniture and oil paintings contrasted so vividly with the squalor and
misery of the lower part of the house that the audacious detective
could scarcely believe his senses.
A smothered cry of rage and terror behind him warned him, and turning
swiftly he beheld Nance, with wild eyes and disheveled hair, springing
toward him. In her uplifted hand gleamed the glittering blade of a
stilletto, and like a fury she rushed upon the bold intruder.
The trained hand flew to the pocket and the ready revolver leaped forth.
Nance staggered back, the dagger falling from her nerveless hand, as in
abject terror she crouched on a chair.
"Don't shoot! don't shoot! See, I won't hurt you," she moaned.
Grasping her by the wrist, and pressing the revolver to her head, Sam
said, sternly, and in a voice that would brook no delay:
"What have you done with the man brought here last night?"
Nance pointed to the next room, too frightened to speak, and thrusting
her forward, Sam continued his search.
Chip, his head covered with a bandage, and still somewhat confused,
recognized his comrade as he entered the room. His mind was clear
enough, however, to appreciate the situation, when the terror-stricken
hag, pointing her long skinny finger at him, quivered in a tremulous
voice: "He's alive; don't you see he's alive?"
Overjoyed at finding Chip safe and still alive, Sam clasped his hands.
"Can you walk, Chip?" he asked,
"I don't know, Sam. I had a devilish close call," and Chip threw back
the covers and essayed to step from the bed. His limbs trembled, and
throwing up his hands despairingly, he sank back again. A flask of
brandy stood on the table, and in an instant Sam had the cork out and
had poured some of its contents down his friend's throat.
The generous fluid warmed the blood and revived the strength of the
wounded detective, who, making another attempt, stood on his feet.
Throwing his arm around Chip's waist, Sam bade the thoroughly cowed
woman to go before him, and was moving slowly to the door when a sharp,
stern voice commanded:
"Stop!"
The detectives looked up, and standing in the open door, a revolver in
each hand, stood Jim Cummings.