DEMANDS OF THE RASCALS.
It was not until some time after breakfast the following morning that
Neka’s absence was discovered.
“He’s sleeping pretty long,” said Bindley to Longfellow Wadsworth.
“He must be more than tired out.”
“Well, he deserves a good sleep,” replied the elocutionist and ballad
singer, for Wadsworth had now added several songs to his turn. “He
made the hit of the performance beyond all question.”
“That’s true. Just see how the _Herald_, _World_, _Sun_, and the
other morning papers puff him up. He’s a star and no mistake.”
Longfellow Wadsworth and Bindley might have been jealous of Neka’s
great success in New York, but both loved the boy too well for that.
They meant to shake him by the hand and congratulate him again when
he came down.
But as the time slipped by and Neka did not put in an appearance, the
pair began to grow anxious. Bindley had called a rehearsal at the
theatre at ten o’clock, and it was almost that already.
“I’ll call him,” said Longfellow Wadsworth, and went up in the
elevator.
In two minutes he came down, pale and excited, and told Bindley the
news. Neka’s room was vacant and looked as if he had not occupied it
at all during the night.
“What can it mean?” asked Bindley, but all Longfellow Wadsworth could
do was to shake his head and say he didn’t know.
“Maybe he meant to meet us at the theatre,” Bindley suggested, after
they had made useless inquiries at the hotel office and of the
bellboys. “Let us go down and see.”
So they took a car to the theatre and waited around there for another
hour. Bindley started the rehearsal with the other performers, but
he was too anxious concerning Neka’s welfare to put any heart in the
work.
In the meantime, Longfellow Wadsworth tramped about the lobby
anxiously, glancing up and down the street and then at his watch, a
timepiece his present prosperity had enabled him to get out of pawn.
Where could Neka be? He conjured up all sorts of things, but none so
dire as the reality.
Presently a special delivery messenger from the post office came in.
“Letter for Longfellow Wadsworth,” he said, laconically, as the
elocutionist rushed toward him.
“I am your man,” exclaimed Longfellow Wadsworth. “I have been looking
for it.” He glanced at the handwriting. “Pshaw! This is not from
Neka.”
He signed for the letter, and the messenger departed. Then he opened
the epistle and read it quickly, then more slowly, and his hands
trembled violently. “The base villains!” he murmured, tragically,
yet with true feeling. “The villains! poor Neka!”
The letter, which had been penned by Hank Maul at Daniel Bambo’s
rather mixed-up dictation, ran as follows:
We have Neka in our power, and he can’t get away, no matter how
hard he tries. If you want him back quick and all well, you must
pony up a thousand dollars. Raise the money any way you please
if you ain’t got it in cash, and have it for us either this
afternoon at four o’clock or to-morrow afternoon at precisely the
same hour. Take the money in good twenty-dollar bills, and have
it so it can easily be counted, and at exactly four o’clock take
a Sixth avenue elevated train at Fourteenth street station for
the last stop in Harlem, and walk up past the Polo Grounds and
all will go well. But beware and go alone and have no police or
other spies around, or you will never see Neka alive again. This
will be a square deal on our account if you do the right thing,
and you won’t be harmed and Neka can go back with you. He is now
fifteen miles away, but if you come at four o’clock to-day he
can get back with you in time for to-night’s show if you hustle
things. Yours,
THE NEW YORK BLACKTOPS.
Take Notice! No police, or there will be trouble, and you won’t
git Neka back!
After perusing the note several times, Longfellow Wadsworth rushed
off and showed it to Bindley, who also read it with close interest.
“The rascals!” muttered the stage manager. “Who can they be?”
“I can’t tell you,” returned the elocutionist. “The question is, what
ought I to do?”
“I wouldn’t give ’em a penny,” burst out Bindley. “Not but what I
want Neka back, but it ain’t right, and, besides, I don’t believe it
will do any good.”
“New York must be getting a pretty place to come to if this is the
sort of a gang that is allowed to exist,” ejaculated Longfellow
Wadsworth, wrathfully.
Not for one moment did either he or Bindley suspect Daniel Bambo or
Hank Maul. If they thought of these men at all it was to suppose them
still up in the New England States.
The matter was talked over for fully half an hour, and no conclusion
was arrived at. Longfellow Wadsworth was for handing the case to a
first-class private detective, but Bindley demurred.
“They may make a mess of it,” he said. “Why not meet whoever there is
and talk the matter over this afternoon? It won’t do any harm.”
“But we won’t get Neka back, and the show----”
“We’ll have to shut down, that’s all. Neka is worth a dozen stands
even as good as this one.”
Again the matter was talked over, and finally Longfellow Wadsworth
agreed to go off as directed in the letter. He armed himself, and so
did Bindley, who intended to follow on the quiet.
At a quarter to four Longfellow Wadsworth made his way to the
Fourteenth street station of the Sixth avenue elevated. In his hip
pocket he carried a pistol and inside of his coat a short but heavy
club. He also had a pocketbook stuffed with paper to resemble bank
notes.
As is usual the elevated station was crowded, and try his best, the
elocutionist could not pick out anyone who might be there to watch
him.
Somewhat nervously he waited until his watch pointed to the hour
of four. At that moment a train bound for Harlem came along, and
he boarded it. Bindley also got on, but the two kept apart, and in
addition the stage manager was disguised by a heavy, false beard.
To Longfellow Wadsworth the train appeared to move from one station
to the next at a snail’s pace, and he fancied the terminus of the
line would never be reached.
But at last the brakeman cried out “Last stop!” and the train rolled
into the station at One Hundred and Fifty-fifth street, and the
passengers who remained got off. They included about two dozen men, a
dozen women, and several boys and girls.
Descending the long stairs to the street, Longfellow Wadsworth turned
and walked up past the Polo Grounds. He walked slowly, but no one
appeared to follow him save an old woman and Bindley, the latter a
good half block behind.
“This looks like a sell,” thought the elocutionist. “There is no one
here nor was there any one on that train. Either they got afraid or
perhaps Neka has escaped them. Pray Heaven the latter proves true.”
But scarcely had the thought flashed over Wadsworth’s mind than the
old woman hobbled up and touched him on the arm. She was heavily
veiled and spoke in a hoarse and unnatural tone.
“Excuse me, sir, but are you Longfellow Wadsworth?” she asked, with a
suspicious glance around.
“I am, madam,” he returned, much astonished.
“Did you bring the money that the gents wants?” she went on.
“Ah, you are the--ah--the one to meet me,” replied Longfellow
Wadsworth, ignoring the reference to the money. “Where is Neka?”
“I don’t know what yer talkin’ about, sir,” growled the old woman. “I
was told to bring you alone, if you said you had the money, that’s
all.”
“Then lead the way, good woman. For I am in a hurry to get back with
Neka.”
At this reply the old woman chuckled to herself. The chuckle sounded
more natural than her voice, and on the moment the elocutionist grew
suspicious.
Then the truth burst upon him. It was no woman at all, this veiled
figure, but a man! Moreover, he had heard that voice before. It was
the voice of Daniel Bambo!
He was greatly tempted to grab the impostor by the throat and cry for
help. But he thought of Neka and of what he might be suffering at the
hands of others and kept quiet. Perhaps Bambo might be merely the
tool of a gang. Yet he managed to look back and was greatly comforted
to see Bindley was following. He slyly dropped a card, as had been
previously agreed upon, which meant that he was on the right track
and Bindley must keep on guard. This card the stage manager picked up
only a few minutes later.
“Where are you going to take me?” he asked, carelessly.
“You’ll see when you’re there,” was the hoarse reply. “Have your
money ready for the gents--that’s what they said I must tell you.”
“Are you in with the crowd?”
“I’m in with nobody. I’m a lone an’ honest widder.”
“So I would imagine,” was Longfellow Wadsworth’s rather sarcastic
reply.
The pair passed down a side street. Here, at a corner, a coach was in
waiting with Dennis Groin on the box.
“You’ll git in the coach,” said Bambo, briefly. “That man has
directions as to where he is to take his fare.”
“But where are you going?”
“That’s none of your business.”
Longfellow Wadsworth hesitated. He did not know that Bambo intended
to ride on the box with Groin, to keep a lookout for possible
detectives, or policemen. He wondered how Bindley would be able to
follow if he entered the carriage.
At that instant an empty coach dashed by, going toward the stage
manager. Without further hesitation, the elocutionist entered Dennis
Groin’s turnout, feeling satisfied Bindley would know enough to hire
the empty coach in which to follow wheels on wheels.
No sooner had Longfellow Wadsworth entered the dilapidated coach than
Bambo sprang up beside Groin, and away they went at the top of the
sorry-looking nag’s speed.
Through the back window of the coach Longfellow Wadsworth saw
Bindley stop the other turnout and parley with the driver. Then they
turned a bend, and he could see no more, but he felt certain the
stage manager would continue on the trail.
Half an hour passed, and Longfellow Wadsworth wondered when the
strange adventure would come to an end, when of a sudden the coach
gave a lurch and went down into a deep rut. A crash followed, and off
came one of the front wheels, and both Groin and Bambo were pitched
out into the snow and dirt.
As they went down Bambo’s veil came off, and so did his bonnet,
revealing his repulsive face fully to Longfellow Wadsworth, who
rolled out of the open coach door. Groin was hurt in the leg, and on
attempting to rise fell back with a grunt of pain.
“Hang the luck!” growled Daniel Bambo.
He leaped up and faced the elocutionist. But before he could make
another move Longfellow Wadsworth had his pistol out.
“This game has gone far enough, Daniel Bambo,” he said, sternly. “Let
us come to a settlement. Where is Neka?”