Tom's anxiety for his comrade drove all thought of sleep from his eyes for
the time; and he sat long in the hot, smoky air of the room down-stairs,
in the hope that Jim would come.
It seemed to the watcher that there was an unusually large number of
visitors in the house that evening. There was a great deal of drinking and
carousing going on, and many of the men gathered there, he was sure,
belonged to the lowest grades of society.
A half-dozen foreign nations were represented, and one had but to listen
to the talk for a short while to learn that among them were many whom one
might well fear to meet on a lonely road at night.
Tom might have felt some dread but for the fact that, rather strangely,
these men showed little disposition to engage in any brawl, and no one
seemed to notice him.
Late in the evening a couple of policemen came in and waited a while
around the stove. They only spoke to the bartender, who treated them with
the greatest consideration; but they scrutinized the lad with a curious
look, which caused him to wonder whether they held any suspicion of
wrong-doing on his part. They said nothing to him, however, and shortly
after went out.
Tom's great alarm for Jim drove nearly every other thought from his mind.
Late as it was, he would have started out to search for him, could he have
formed the least idea of the course to take; but, besides being a stranger
in the city, he knew that a single man or a hundred might spend weeks in
hunting for one in the metropolis, without the least probability of
finding him.
It was near midnight when he concluded to make his way to the room, hoping
that Jim would show up before morning.
The sounds of revelry below, mingled with shouts and the stamping of feet,
together with the feverish condition of the lad, kept him awake another
hour; but at last he fell into a light, uneasy sleep, haunted by all sorts
of grotesque, awful visions.
Suddenly he awoke; in the dim light of his little room Tom saw the figure
of a man standing by the bed.
"Who are you? What do you want?" whispered the terrified lad, struggling
to rise to a sitting position.
"Mebbe ye doesn't know me, but I'm Patsey McConough, and it was mesilf
that saw ye shtrike out so boldly last night and save the gal that had
fallen overboard, and St. Patrick himself couldn't have done it any better
than did yersilf."
"What do you mean by coming into my room this way?" asked Tom, whose fear
greatly subsided under the words of the Irishman.
"I come up-stairs to wake ye, for I'm afeard ye are going to have trouble
onless ye look mighty sharp."
"What do you mean?"
Patsey carefully closed and bolted the door behind him, and sat down on
the edge of the bed, speaking in a low, guarded voice.
"There's a big crowd down-stairs, and Tim's grog is getting to their
heads, and they're riddy for any sort of a job. There are a couple of
Italian cut-throats, and though I can't understand much of their lingo,
yet I cotched enough of the same to make me sartin they mean to rob ye."
"But would they dare try it in the house here?"
"Whisht now, there isn't anything they wouldn't thry, if they thought
there was a chance of making a ha'pence at it. They've murdered men afore
to-night, and they would just as lief slip up here and cut your wizen as
they would ate a piece of macaroni. Whisht now, and I'll give ye the
partic'lars and inshtruct ye what to do. It wouldn't be safe for ye to git
up and go out, for they'll folly ye and garrote ye afore ye could raich a
safe place. I would stay here and watch with ye, but that I've overstayed
me time alriddy, and I'll catch thunder whin I git back home, 'cause I
can't make the boss belave the raison why I staid. Here's a pistol,"
added the Irishman, shoving a five-shooter into the hand of the
astonished lad, "and ivery barrel is loaded, and it niver misses fire, as
the victims can tell ye as have been hit by the same. Do ye take this,
bolt yer door, and if anybody comes poking in the room after I'm gone,
just bore a hole through him, and then ax him if he ain't ashamed of
himself to steal into a private apartment in that shtyle. Take me word for
it, he won't come agin."
"I should think not," said Tom, who was dressing himself. "But I don't
like the idea of shooting a man."
"Nor do I, but it's loikely to be a chice between shooting him or him
shooting ye, and ye are at liberty to decide."
And with a few parting words of caution the Irishman took his departure,
first pausing long enough to advise Tom to change his quarters if he was
spared until the morrow, and suggesting that the wisest thing he could do
was to get out of New York as speedily as he knew how.
As may well be imagined, Tom Gordon was not likely to fall asleep again
that night, so, having fully dressed himself, he sat down on the edge of
the bed to wait and watch.
A small transom over his door admitted enough light to discern objects
with sufficient distinctness in the room, and he carefully shoved the bolt
in place, feeling he was prepared for any emergency.
Even with such an exciting subject to occupy his thoughts, he could not
fail to wonder and fear for his missing friend. He prayed Heaven to watch
over the boy's footsteps and to prevent his wandering into any danger,
while the feeling that the poor fellow was already beyond all human help
weighed down the heart of Tom like a mountain of lead.
This suspense did not continue long when the watchful lad heard some one
ascending the stairs--an action which might mean nothing or a great deal.
The room occupied by the boy was along a narrow hall, perhaps fifty feet
in length, the apartment being half that distance from the head of the
stairs.
It seemed to Tom that there was an attempt to smother the sound made by
the feet, which plainly belonged to two people, though the effort was far
from being a success.
"They may be going to their own room, after all"--
The heart of the lad gave a great bound, for at that instant the footsteps
paused directly in front of his own door, and he could hear the men
muttering to each other in low tones.
"They're looking for me," was the conclusion of the boy, who grasped his
pistol more rigidly, and rose to the standing posture.
"If they want me, all they've got to do is to take me."
What was the amazement of the youth to see at this moment, while his eyes
were fixed upon the door, the iron bolt slowly move back, without, so far
as he could see, the least human agency.
This was a house, indeed, in which such characters were given every
facility they could wish to ply their unholy vocation.
Immediately after the fastening went back, the latch was lifted, and the
door swung noiselessly inward.
As it did so, a head, covered only with a mass of shock hair, which hung
down like pieces of tarred rope, and with the lower part of the face
veiled by a black, stringy beard, was thrust far enough within to show the
shoulders. Directly behind appeared another face, placed on a shorter
body, but none the less repellant in expression, and the two were forcing
their way into the room, when they paused.
They seemed to conclude that it would be best to consider the matter
further before rushing in there.
Instead of seeing a boy sound asleep in bed, waiting for them to rob him
of all his earthly possessions, they found themselves confronted by a
wide-awake lad, with his revolver pointed straight at their villainous
heads.
"Why don't you come in?" asked Tom, never lowering his weapon.
"Put him down!" said the foremost of the villains, in broken English,
hoping to frighten the lad.
"I don't feel like doing it just now," was the reply, while the arm
remained as fixed as a bar of iron.
Tom did not intend to shoot unless they advanced upon him; but, not being
accustomed to the weapon, he was unaware that a very slight pressure was
enough to discharge it. Unconsciously he exerted that slight pressure,
and, while the miscreants were glaring in the door, the pistol was fired.
What was more, the bullet struck one of the Italians, who, with a howl of
pain, wheeled about and hurried down-stairs, followed by his
terror-stricken companion.
Tom was half-frightened out of his wits, and made up his mind that the
best thing he could do was to get out of the place without any further
delay.
The only way to escape was to go down the stairs, the same as his
assailants had done.
It was not a pleasant duty; but, remembering what the Irishman had told
him, and filled with an uncontrollable aversion against staying any
longer, he hurried out, pausing only long enough to catch up his small
bundle of clothing.
In the smoky, hot room down-stairs, the scene was nearly the same as when
he left it a couple of hours before to go to bed. The two Italians were
invisible, and the little affray up-stairs seemed to have attracted no
attention at all. The bartender was too much occupied to notice the lad,
who made his way outside into the clear, frosty air, where he inhaled a
few deep draughts to give him new life and courage.
He knew not which way to turn, but he was confident he could find some
safe lodging-place without going far, and he moved along the street, where
there were plenty of pedestrians abroad, even though the hour was so late.
He was quite near the river, and determined not to be caught in such a
trap again. He walked slowly, scrutinizing as well as he could the
exterior of each building in sight, where the wayfarer and traveler was
invited to step within and secure food and lodging.
In this manner he passed several houses, and was on the point of turning
into one which seemed to have an inviting look, when his attention was
arrested by a lad who was running toward him from the rear.
He was panting and laboring along as though about exhausted.
As he reached the wondering Tom, who stopped and turned aside to let him
pass, the stranger paused and said,--
"Say, sonny, just hold that watch, will you, till I come back?"
And before the boy fairly understood the question, the other shoved a gold
watch and chain into his hands, then darted into an alleyway and
disappeared.
He had scarcely done so when two swift footed policemen came dashing
along, as if in pursuit.
"Here he is!" exclaimed one, catching hold of Tom's arm, and dealing him a
stunning blow on the head with his locust.
"That's the little imp," added the other, the two guardians of the law
pouncing upon the lad as if he were a Hercules, who meant to turn upon and
rend them.
"I haven't done anything," remonstrated Tom, feeling that some fearful
mistake had been made.
"Shut up, you little thief!" yelled the policeman, whacking him on the
head again with his club. "Ah, here is the watch on him! We've been
looking for you, my boy, for a month, and we've got you at last."