STOP THIEF!
They descended on the dining-car at twelve o'clock promptly, being
unable to remain away any longer, and gave an excellent imitation of a
visitation of locusts performing their well-known devastating act. If
any two travellers by land or sea ever received their money's worth in
food it was Steve and Tom. They took the menu card and briskly demanded
everything in order, and when, having finished their dessert, they made
the discovery that a criminally careless waiter had deprived them of
pineapple sherbert, they immediately and indignantly saw to it that the
omission was corrected. Afterwards, groaning with happiness and
repletion, they dragged themselves back to their own car and subsided on
the seat in beatific silence.
An hour later they came out of their stupor to stare eagerly, excitedly
out at the indications of the approaching metropolis. Meadows strung
with enormous and glaring signboards gave place to towns and presently
there came a pause at a station where other trains whisked in and out
with amazing frequency. Then on again, and they were suddenly dipping
into a tunnel, conscious of an unpleasant pressure against their
eardrums. Tom's expression of bewildered alarm moved a kind-hearted
neighbour across the car aisle to lean over and explain smilingly that
the train was now running under the river, a piece of information but
little calculated to remove Tom's fears had he given the slightest
credence to it, which he didn't.
"I guess," he muttered resentfully close to Steve's ear, "he thinks
we're a couple of 'greenies' for fair! Going under a river!"
And then, almost before Tom's indignation had given way again to alarm,
the tunnel was left behind and they were in New York at last, a
dimly-lighted, subterranean New York filled with hurrying crowds,
bustle, noise, confusion and importunate porters. Even though the two
boys emerged to the platform in a somewhat dazed condition, they had no
intention of wasting perfectly good pocket money having their bags
carried for them, and so started out to find the office of the baggage
transfer company quite bravely. For a minute they had only to follow the
hurrying throng of fellow-passengers, but soon this throng divided and
went separate ways and Steve and Tom, resting their arms by depositing
their hand luggage on the lower step of an apparently interminable
flight of broad stairs, looked about for someone to question. But
everyone seemed in a terrible hurry, and when, at last, Steve ventured
to put a query to a benevolent-looking elderly gentleman who clutched a
tightly-rolled umbrella in one hand and an afternoon paper in the other,
he almost had his head bitten off! In the end, they proceeded up the
stairway and at last came upon a returning porter who gave them their
direction. By the time they had reached the transfer company's office
they had walked so far that Tom wondered whether most of the city was
not contained inside the station!
Presently, though, he saw that it wasn't. For they found themselves
standing outside the terminal on a street that stretched, apparently,
for millions of miles in each direction! They had received detailed
advice from the man in the transfer company's office as to the best
method of reaching the Grand Central Station, and the directions had
sounded quite easy to follow. But now the feat didn't look so simple,
for the man had told them to take a car going in a certain direction and
there wasn't a car in sight! Moreover, when Tom came to look for
car-tracks there weren't any! He pointed out the fact to Steve, and
Steve, at first a bit dismayed, at last shrugged his shoulders and
observed his chum pityingly.
"You don't suppose all the cars in this town run on tracks, do you?" he
asked.
"What do they run on then?"
"Why--er--you wait and see!"
"That's all right, but it's almost three o'clock and our train goes from
the other station at a quarter-past, and----"
"Well, we'll ask someone," said Steve. But, oddly enough, there was no
one to ask. For a town as large as New York that block of street was
strangely deserted. A team or two passed and an elderly woman crept by
on the opposite sidewalk, but no one came near them. Finally Steve
muttered:
"Looks to me as if we were on the wrong street. Maybe there are two
doors to this old station, Tom."
"Of course there are! Let's walk down to that corner. There goes a car
now!" And Tom, as though his future happiness depended on catching that
particular car, seized his bag and started down the street at a run.
Steve followed more leisurely, and when he reached the corner Tom was
talking to a policeman. It was all very simple. They had made the
mistake of leaving the terminal by a wrong exit and had emerged on to a
cross-town street. After that it was easy. A car lumbered up, the
policeman stopped it for them, they climbed aboard, were hurled half the
length of the aisle and fell into seats. A few minutes later they
transferred to a cross-town line without misadventure.
"They certainly make you step lively in this town," panted Tom,
clutching a strap and narrowly avoiding a seat in the lap of a very
stout lady. "Glad I don't have to live here!"
Steve, however, whose eyes were darting hither and thither in a
desperate effort to lose none of the sights, was more favourably
disposed toward the city. Even when, owing to a blockade at one of the
street intersections, it became evident that they could not possibly
make the three-fifteen train to Brimfield, Steve refused to be troubled.
"Maybe," he said, "we'll have time to walk around a bit and see
something. Say we do it, anyway, Tom?"
"No, sir, this place is too blamed big! First thing we'd know we'd be
lost for fair and never would get to Brimfield. When I get to that
station I'm going to sit down and stay there!"
When they did reach it the three-fifteen train had been gone nearly ten
minutes, and inquiry at a window labelled "Information" elicited the
announcement that the next train available for them would not leave
until three-fifty-eight, since Brimfield, it seemed, was not a
sufficiently important station to be served by all the trains.
"That gives us half an hour," said Steve eagerly. "Let's check our bags
somewhere and go out and look around."
"Yes, and get lost! No, sir, not for mine!"
"Oh, don't be such a scarecrow! Come on!"
But Tom was obdurate. "You go if you want to," he said, "but I'm going
to sit down right here and wait. You can leave your bag and I'll look
after it. Only, if you don't get back by a quarter to four I'm going to
the train, and I'll take your bag with me."
"All right. I just want to go out front awhile. I'll be back in ten
minutes. You stay here. And keep your eye on the bags, Tom. I guess
there's a lot of sneak-thieves around here." And Steve looked about him
suspiciously, his glance finally falling on Tom's left-hand neighbour, a
youth of perhaps nineteen years upon whose good-looking face rested an
amused smile. Instantly, however, the paper he was holding was raised to
hide his face, and Steve frowned. The fellow was, thought Steve,
altogether too well-dressed and slick-looking to be honest, and that
smile disturbed him. He leaned down and whispered in Tom's ear:
"Look out for the fellow next to you! I think he's a crook!"
Tom turned an alarmed glance to his left and a disturbed one on Steve.
"I--I guess," he said with elaborate carelessness, "I'll sit over there
where it's lighter." Whereupon he gathered the bags up and literally
fled across the waiting-room, Steve at his heels. In his new location,
out of sight of the suspected youth, he said hoarsely: "I reckon he was
a pickpocket, don't you?"
"You can't tell," responded Steve, shaking his head knowingly. "Anyway,
you want to keep an eye on those bags every minute. I'll be right back,
though. Want to see my paper?" And Steve handed an _Evening Sun_,
purchased on the car, to his chum and wound his way through the throng
toward the entrance.
Left to himself, Tom looked at the clock and saw that the hour was
three-thirty-two, glanced apprehensively about him in search of possible
malefactors, dragged the bags closer to his feet and unfolded the paper.
But he couldn't find much to interest him in it. Besides, he had to look
at the clock every few minutes, and whenever a man in a uniform
appeared with a megaphone and announced the impending departure of a
train Tom had heart disease, seized both bags and crouched ready for
instant flight until he was assured that the word "Brimfield" was not
among the list of stations enunciated through the trumpet. It was after
he had sunk back with a sigh of relief on finding that a train for
"Pittsburgh, Chicago and the West" was not his that he discovered that
an empty seat at his right had been occupied during his strained
interest in the announcer. Glancing around he saw that the occupant was
the well-dressed, good-looking youth who had been seated next to him
before. The youth seemed very interested in the paper he was reading,
his gaze being apparently fixed on a column headed "Tiger's Football
Players Report," but Tom refused to be deceived. Only the fact that a
grey-coated station policeman was standing within hail kept him from a
second flight. Steve, he reflected nervously while he wound both feet
around the bags, would return in a minute or two and then they could go
to the train. Tom devoutly wished himself and the bags there now. Once
he was conscious of the fact that the youth beside him was glancing his
way, but he pretended not to be aware of it. Then his neighbour spoke.
"Princeton ought to have a pretty good team this year," he observed
genially. Tom, his heart in his mouth, nodded.
"Y-yes," he said.
"Interested in football?" went on the other. Tom dared a quick glance at
the smiling face and shook his head.
"No, thank you. I mean--yes, a little." He didn't want to talk because
he had read that confidence men always engaged their victims in
conversation before selling them counterfeit money or leading them to
gamble away their savings. Tom's eyes darted anxiously about in search
of Steve and he wondered how soon the smooth-voiced stranger would call
him by name or ask after the folks in Tannersville. He hadn't long to
wait!
"It's a great game," pursued the other. Then, after a short pause: "Say,
I've met you before, haven't I? Your face looks familiar."
"No," answered Tom shortly, digging his feet convulsively against the
bulging sides of the bags on the floor.
"My mistake, then. I thought perhaps you were from Tannersville,
Pennsylvania."
Tom almost jumped, although he had been expecting some such remark. It
was, he reflected agitatedly, absolutely marvellous the way these
fellows learned things! In a moment the fellow would tell him his name!
The fellow didn't, though. He only said:
"Tannersville is a fine town. Ever been there?"
Tom shook his head energetically. "Never!" he fibbed.
"Oh!" The confidence-man--for Tom had fully decided that such he
was--seemed disappointed. But he wasn't discouraged. "Which way are you
travelling?" he asked.
Tom did a lot of thinking then in a fragment of a minute.
"Philadelphia," he blurted.
"Philadelphia! Why, say, you're in the wrong station. You ought to go to
the Pennsylvania Terminal. I guess you're a stranger here, eh? Tell you
what I'll do. You come with me and I'll put you on a car that'll take
you right there."
"I--I've got to wait for a friend," muttered Tom desperately, sending an
appealing glance toward the policeman who had now begun to saunter
slowly away.
"That so? Well----" The other got up with a glance at the clock and
reached down for his suit-case. Tom's gaze followed the direction of
that hand closely. It was, he thought, odd that a confidence-man should
carry a suit-case, but that might be only an attempt to avert suspicion.
The bag held the inscription "A. L. M., Orange, N. J." Probably the bag
had been stolen. Tom fixed that inscription firmly in his mind. "I'll
have to be going," said "A. L. M." "Sorry I can't be of assistance to
you, kid. I thought that maybe if you were going my way, out to
Brimfield, I could give you a hand with your bags."
Tom gasped! How did he know about Brimfield?
"Thanks," he muttered. "I--I'll get on all right." Standing there in
front of him "A. L. M." looked very youthful to be such a deep-dyed
villain and Tom felt a bit sorry for him. But the villain was smiling
broadly and, as it seemed to Tom, a trifle mockingly.
"Better keep a sharp lookout for crooks," advised the other. "There are
lots of 'em about here. See that old chap over there with the basket of
fruit in his lap?" The stranger moderated his voice and leaned toward
Tom. Tom, turning his head a trifle to follow the other's gaze, felt one
of the bags between his feet move and made a grab toward it. But the
stranger had not, apparently, touched it, unless with a foot. "That," he
was saying, "is Four-Fingered Phillips, one of the cleverest
confidence-men in New York. Well, so long!"
The other moved away, walking nonchalantly past the station policeman
who had now wandered back to his post. Tom held his breath. But the
policeman, although he undoubtedly followed the youth with his gaze for
a moment, failed to act, and Tom was not a little relieved. Even if the
fellow was a crook he seemed an awfully decent sort and Tom was glad he
hadn't been arrested.
It was getting perilously near a quarter to four now and still Steve had
not returned. Tom watched the long hand crawl toward the figure IX, saw
it reach it and pass. He would, he decided then, give Steve another five
minutes. His gaze fell on "Four-Fingered Phillips" and he viewed that
gentleman perplexedly. He didn't look in the least like a
confidence-man. He appeared to be about sixty years of age, eminently
respectable and slightly infirm. He clutched a basket of fruit and an
ivory-headed cane and seemed quite oblivious to everything about him.
New York, reflected Tom, with something like a shudder, must be a
terribly wicked place! And then, while he was still striving to discern
signs of depravity under the gentle and kindly exterior of the elderly
confidence-man, a young woman, leading a little boy of some three or
four years of age and bearing many bundles, hurried up to "Four-Fingered
Phillips," spoke, helped him to his feet and guided him away toward the
train-shed. Tom sighed. It was too much for him! Of course he had read
of female accomplices, but it didn't seem that a four-year-old child
could be a part of the game! For the first time he wondered whether "A.
L. M.," perhaps chagrined at his failure to decoy Tom to some secret
lair, had deceived him about "Four-Fingered Phillips"!
Then it was ten minutes to four, good measure, and Tom, in a sudden
panic, seized his bags, gazed about him despairingly and made for the
train-shed. He had given Steve fair warning, he told himself, and now he
could just fend for himself. But his steps got slower and slower as he
approached the gate and when he reached it he set the bags down, got his
ticket out and waited. After all, it would be a pretty mean trick to
leave Steve. At least, he'd wait there until the last moment. The
minutes passed and the hands on the clock further along the barrier
crept nearer and nearer to the time set for the departure of the
Brimfield accommodation. Tom wondered when the next train after this one
would leave.
"Going on this train, son?" asked the gateman.
"Yes," answered Tom, and took a step toward the gate. Then he stopped
and shook his head. "No, I guess not," he muttered. "When does the next
one go, sir?"
"Where to?" asked the gateman, punching the ticket of a late arrival.
"Brimfield."
"Four-twelve." The gate closed and the matter was irrevocably settled.
Tom took his bags and hurried back to the waiting-room and found his
place again. No Steve was in sight!
"I'll give him ten minutes," said Tom savagely. "Then I'll go. And--and
I won't come back the next time!"
And then, just as the clock announced the hour Steve appeared, a little
flushed and breathless, but smiling broadly.
"Gee, you ought to have been with me, Tom!" he said excitedly. "There
was a peach of a fire just around in the next street! Seven engines and
a hook-and-ladder and hundreds of hose-carts and one of those
water-towers! And most of the engines were automobiles, Tom! It was
corking!"
"Maybe it was," replied Tom coldly. "I'm going to Brimfield on the
four-twelve. What you going to do? Find another fire?"
"Why, no. When I saw I'd lost that other train I thought I might as
well wait and see the fire out. There's lots of time, anyway. We'll have
plenty of school before we get through with it, Tom."
"That's all right," responded Tom bitterly, "but you're way off if you
think it's any fun for me sitting around here and waiting for you while
you have a good time going to fires!"
"You said you didn't want to go----"
"Well, what if I did?" demanded Tom, working himself into a very
respectable fit of anger. "I _didn't_ want to go. But that's no reason
why you should leave me alone for the rest of the day to--to stave off
robbers and thieves and confidence-men and--and all!"
"Oh, well, come on," said Steve. "We haven't done anything but lose a
train----"
"We've lost two trains!"
"And the man says there's another at twelve minutes after."
"And we'll lose that if you stand here talking much longer," declared
Tom peevishly. "Take up your bag and come along. There's only six or
seven minutes."
"Where is it? Haven't you got it?"
"Got what?"
"My bag," said Steve crossly.
"Isn't it staring you in the face?" asked Tom disgustedly, indicating
the suit-case against the seat. "Are you blind?"
"That? That isn't mine. Where----" Steve looked at the bag in Tom's hand
and then around the floor. "_Where's mine?_"
"What!" Tom was gazing in stupefied amazement at the bag between them.
On the end appeared the legend: "A. L. M., Orange, N. J."