“You’re getting on finely, old fellow,” said James Barclay to himself,
as he left the tenement house, and steered toward Broadway. “I managed
that old woman skillfully, and got all the information I want. I think,
Jerry Barclay, you won’t long elude me. I shall have no trouble now in
finding the telegraph boy, and then I shall soon be face to face with
the old man.”
Arrived at Printing House Square, he struck across the City Hall Park,
the other side of which is skirted by Broadway.
Sitting on one of the benches was a man rather showily dressed, with a
red blotched face, and an indefinable expression that stamped him as
one who lived by his wits, rather than by honest toil. As Barclay’s
glance rested upon him, he uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Bill Slocum, is that you?” he said.
“Jim Barclay, as I’m a sinner,” said the other, rising and extending
a rough hand, on one of whose fingers sparkled a ring, set with what
might have been a diamond, but was probably paste. “And how is the
world using you, old pal?”
“Rough,” answered Barclay. “The old man’s gone back on me, and my own
wife made a great fuss because I wanted to borrow a dollar. Sometimes I
think I was better off in our old boarding place up the river.”
Bill Slocum was one of his fellow boarders up at Sing Sing.
“The world owes you a living, Barclay,” said his friend.
“So it does, but how’s a chap going to collect his claim? That’s what
I’d like to know.”
“O, well, there’s ways if you only know how,” said Slocum, rather
enigmatically.
“How are you makin’ it yourself?” asked Barclay, curiously.
“I get enough to eat and drink and wear. I ain’t in no anxiety about
livin’.”
“How do you do it?”
“Just look at that!”
Bill Slocum drew from his pocket a roll of bills, and held it up for
his companion to see. It was a thick roll, and amounted to a fair sum,
even if the denominations were small.
“How’d you get all that?” asked Barclay.
“There’s more where they come from,” answered Slocum.
“Are there any for me?” asked Barclay, eagerly.
“Yes, if I introduce you.”
“You’ll do it, Slocum, won’t you?”
“Yes, if you want me to. But, first, a word in your ear.”
He rose from his seat, and withdrew to a place where he would not be
heard.
“They’re flimsies,” he said, briefly.
“Oh!” ejaculated Barclay, looking a trifle disappointed.
He understood that they were not genuine bills, but counterfeit.
“Well, and what if they are?” said Slocum, reading his expression.
“There’s a risk about it.”
“Nothin’ venture, nothin’ have, as my old grandmother used to say.
Just be foxy, and you won’t get caught. I’m making a good living off of
it, myself.”
“What commission do you get for passing them?”
“Fifty cents on a dollar. That’s liberal, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that is liberal,” Barclay admitted. “Have you made anything
today?”
“Have I? Well, I reckon I have.”
“How much?”
“I’ve passed a ten and a five.”
“And that gives you seven and a half for your share?”
“Right you are, Barclay. Your knowledge of arithmetic does credit to
your education. It’s plain your respected parent took great pains with
your trainin’.”
“My respected parent,” repeated Barclay, frowning, “is about the
meanest old skinflint you’ll find within a hundred miles. I found
him out yesterday, and let him know that I was going to call again
today, to raise a loan, but when I called the old fox was gone bag and
baggage.”
“A shabby way to treat his offspring. I pity you, Jim. So you are left
to the tender mercies of the world.”
“I don’t find ’em very tender,” growled Barclay. “Do you see that?” and
he drew from his pocket about forty cents in change.
“Yes, but it doesn’t dazzle me.”
“It’s all the money I have in the world.”
“Then you’d better join me.”
Barclay hesitated.
“I don’t quite like it. I don’t care about going up the river again too
soon.”
“You needn’t, if you are careful. I’ll give you a few points. If one of
your bills is found out, you are at once searched to see if you have
any more.”
“There’s the danger.”
“So there is, but you can guard against it. When I am preparing to
offer a bill, I put a number of good bills in my vest pocket, where
they will be certain to be found at once. The other counterfeits I put
in a secret inside pocket where they are not likely to be discovered.
Then when it is found that all the other bills are good, I say that
some rascal must have passed the bad bill on me, taking advantage of my
innocence and ignorance of the world.”
This seemed to Barclay an excellent joke, and he laughed long and loud.
“Excuse me, Bill, but you don’t look it.”
“I can when it’s necessary.”
After a little more conversation Barclay, who was already half
convinced, yielded to the temptation, and agreed to accompany his
friend to the secret office of the counterfeiters, and enroll himself
as one of their agents. Slocum offered to conduct him within at once.
The interview proved a satisfactory one, and Barclay was readily
accepted, being vouched for by his friend and companion. It may be said
also that his appearance was in his favor, though it would hardly have
recommended him for any honest business.
When Barclay came out of the office, and again found himself on
Broadway, his spirits were perceptibly raised. He was no longer
impecunious, but carried with him fifty dollars in counterfeit bills.
“Well, good by, Jim,” said Slocum. “It is best for us to part, and not
work near each other. Then again, it is best not to recognize each
other when we meet, so that if one gets into a scrape the other need
not be molested.”
“All right, Slocum. Success to you!”
James Barclay walked up Broadway, when all at once he uttered a half
exclamation indicative of astonishment.
He was nearly face to face with a telegraph boy, in whom he recognized
the resolute lad who had foiled him in his attempt at burglary. But
this was not all. On the boy’s cap he recognized, with amazement, the
distinctive inscription:
A. D. T.
91.