A CLEAN BILL OF HEALTH
Shortly after the Cadiz burglary, having been able to insure myself
from arrest at the hands of the New York police by lining their palms
with gold, and the life of a criminal having been accepted as a means
of regaining my standing, if possible, in New Hampshire, I turned my
face east in the belief that all-powerful gold would purchase there
what justice, as dealt out at Keene, had withheld from me.
With this object in view I sent for A. V. Lynde, one of my attorneys
in the New Hampshire case, and we conferred at great length, with the
result that he assured me I would not be convicted should a retrial of
the case be had. However, I wanted to get a clean bill of health, and
felt disposed to leave no door closed through which I could obtain it.
I believed that money would prove the strongest argument. So, after
the ground had been thoroughly gone over, it was determined to offer
Herbert Bellows, the power behind the burglary charge, two propositions
from which to choose. One was that I would surrender for a retrial,
provided reasonable bail would be vouchsafed me, with the further
promise that if I were acquitted my confiscated property would be
returned to me. The second proposition was that if he would consent to
the quashing of the indictment a sum not to exceed ten thousand dollars
would be paid him.
With these propositions, Mr. Lynde returned to Keene and submitted them
to Bellows, through the latter’s attorney. The first was instantly
declined. The second would be accepted, provided the bribe was
increased to twenty thousand dollars. That price I would not consider
for a moment, and the subject was dropped until a year after, when
Bellows, through his counsel, sent word that he’d accept ten thousand
to wipe out the indictment. There was a meeting, but I declared I’d not
pay that sum.
“Well, what will you give us?” asked Bellows’s lawyer.
“Perhaps five thousand,” said Mr. Lynde, carelessly, speaking for me.
He added, “We’re somewhat like Judge Doe and his bail proposition--only
we subtract, while, as you’ll remember, he worked in addition.”
No agreement was arrived at, and so another twelvemonth passed. Then
Bellows’s counsel came to the front again and made Mr. Lynde an offer
to accept my last figure. I smile as I recall the sympathetic tone
my counsel adopted in replying to Bellows’s man: “Oh, really, I’m so
sorry, but you know that five thousand dollar proposition of ours is
outlawed--quite outlawed--in fact, a back number.”
The prolonged negotiations had brought the case to a point where
Bellows was no longer nibbling at the golden bait,--he was attempting
to swallow it whole, now that there appeared to be danger of it
vanishing forever.
“We’re open to a proposition,” said his attorney, feebly. “It’s time
the matter was closed up.”
Mr. Lynde and I had grown weary of the subject months before, and
decided that we would administer the other side a sample of its own
medicine. Mr. Lynde said, unenthusiastically, “So far as I’m concerned,
I can’t say that my client, at this late day, will pay a single
cent. At one time he decided to offer you ten thousand, but that was
thrown in his teeth. Then he offered to pay five thousand, but that
proposition Mr. Bellows declined. How he feels now I have no idea, and
will not know unless I write to him.”
“Suppose you let him know of our offer at once,” said the attorney.
“I’ll see what I can do,” answered Mr. Lynde, in a hopeless way; “but I
tell you I don’t believe he’ll pay Bellows five thousand now.”
The proposition was laid before me, but it was not until another year
had nearly gone by that I indicated any desire to act. The backing
and filling had disgusted me in the extreme. I’d made up my mind not
to discuss the subject again until there was a plain indication from
Bellows that he was ready to come to the point.
But I had no reason to complain at the next negotiation, for he was
willing enough to take my money. His attorney called on Mr. Lynde,
and a meeting was arranged in New York, between an attorney named
Pritchard, a New York friend of Bellows, and my representative Frank
Houghtaling, a clerk in Jefferson Market Police Court, who had served
Shinburn and me so well up in Steuben County, where we had our little
adventure with Sheriff Smith. As the result of the first meeting there
was a second, which took place at Delmonico’s. Bellows was present and
so was I. Amid a plentiful flow of wine, Houghtaling handed Bellows
three thousand dollars, and the indictment was handed me. That document
was destroyed. Thus, after three years, was I given a clean bill of
health in New Hampshire.
That winter I paid a hasty visit to my folks, and was astonished to
hear that there was a break-jail indictment out against me, and that I
was likely to be arrested at any moment. The indictment had been asked
for by District Attorney Lane, so I was told, soon after I’d made the
deal with Herbert Bellows. It was said that Lane had expected something
from Bellows at the quashing of the burglary charge, but had been
turned down. Unable to proceed against Bellows, Lane, out of revenge,
asked for the break-jail indictment more than three years after the
offence was committed, believing, in that manner, he could make void
what Bellows had guaranteed me. However despicable this was on the part
of the district attorney, it did seem to me that Bellows, who depended
upon Lane to quash the burglary indictment, should have been willing
to pay his tool a little of the blackmail money I had paid him. But,
as usual, I was the greatest sufferer, the centre upon which the storm
created by others beat hardest, and I turned about to face the fresh
trouble. Instinctively my hand went down in my pocket.
Summoning my brother, I told him I had only a few hours to visit
with the folks, for I must be back in New York, as soon as possible,
on account of important business matters. Carefully placing two
one-hundred dollar bills in an envelope, I sealed it in his presence,
handed it to him and said:--
“Go to District Attorney F. F. Lane, and say this to him: ‘My brother
George bade me hand you this envelope, and if you retain it, he expects
you will put that break-jail indictment in the after pocket in your
frock coat, and then sit on a red-hot stove.’”
My brother performed his errand faithfully, and I never heard from that
source again, except for an extremely unpleasant, though after all
amusing, incident.
In the following June I had completed a four-day visit with my people,
and was on my way home. I boarded the train at Bellows Falls, and we
stopped at Charlestown, not many miles away, when my attention was
attracted by an unusually long wait at the station. I was on the point
of asking for the reason, when old Sheriff Stebbins, the chap I met in
the sleighride party the night young Woods and I escaped from Keene
jail, came into the coach almost out of breath, and cried loudly:--
“I want ye, durn it! Ye’re my pris’ner, George White.”
I was thunderstruck for the instant, to be thus exposed to the other
passengers, of which there were quite a number.
“All right, sheriff,” I replied, as coolly as I was able, upon
recovering myself, “but isn’t there some mistake? It’s pretty rough to
accuse a fellow like this, and to interrupt his journey, too. I’ve been
home to see the old folks. What have I done?”
“Never mind--come outen this--I’ll sheow ye what ye’ve done,” he cried
excitedly. “There’s some folks as will be sheoutin’ when they git hold
on ye thar in Keene.”
So I alighted with him, but in passing, I met “Spress” Babbitt, whom I
well knew. He averted his face--purposely, I could see; and I wondered
at it. He was the express messenger on the train. I realized that
Stebbins had been notified by telegraph that I was a passenger on the
way to Charlestown, and that some one who knew me pretty well must
have been the informer.
“How did you know I was on the train?” I asked Stebbins.
“‘Spress’ Babbitt seen ye on the platform outen th’ car winder at
Bellows Falls.’”
“And telegraphed on to you?”
“Thet’s the size on’t,” grinned Stebbins. I felt like pulling his
whiskers, he seemed to enjoy the situation so much. I wasn’t alarmed
over the outcome, but I didn’t relish being held up to view in that
community after I had gone through so much trouble to fix things.
“And,” I went on sneeringly, “they held the train here until you came?”
“Thet’s wot ‘Spress’ sed he’d dew, an’ he done et, b’ gosh!”
I could have choked Babbitt had I had his little chicken neck in my
hands at the moment.
“I hed tew drive five mile, en like sixty, tew,” Stebbins said, as he
walked me to a steaming team at the side of the depot. At my request
he drove to Eagle Hotel, where I got him in excellent humor through
frequent libations in the bar-room.
“Wal, b’ gummany Christmus!” he finally said, with a silly grin, “I
give ye more credit ’an ye hev. Thought ye’d hev better sense ’an t’
run kerslam inter my paws. I’ve ben waitin’ t’ git my hooks onter ye
ever sense ye bruck outen jail.”
The rascal! I saw at once that he had his mind on getting a reward for
my capture, evidently not having heard that both indictments had been
done away with.
“Ah, Stebbins, my good fellow, I see you’re after the thousand,” I
said, after he had finished taking his measure of my shrewdness.
“Ye kin betcher bottom cent on’t--sartin! Why not?”
“That’s so, sheriff! Yes; why not?” I returned, laughingly. “But what
are you going to do with me first?”
“I ruther guess it’s on’y a bit o’ a trot fer my team back t’ jail
ye bruck from--sorter like twenty odd mile!” he said, grinning and
slapping his hands together in great delight.
“I hope you won’t be in too much of a hurry, Mr. Stebbins. Now, I’m
going to ask you as a favor to find out from District Attorney Lane
whether or not he wants me. It may be he doesn’t. Do you know?”
“Want ye? Glory and snakes! Sartin, he wants ye!”
“If you don’t mind, sheriff,” I suggested, “I’ll telegraph him. Do you
object?”
“Sartin no--no objecshuns!” He seemed to relish his liquor.
“I like your ways, Mr. Stebbins,” I said with a smile, and added,
“When we get through telegraphing District Attorney Lane, we’ll have
something to eat, and more to drink, too, if you feel like it.”
Then I wrote the following to F. F. Lane: “Sheriff Stebbins claims to
have me under arrest here--do you want me?--wire at my expense.”
While Stebbins looked on I signed my name to these words, and soon they
were being clicked to their destination. Stebbins’s little eyes were
wide open with astonishment and confusion. Presently he asked: “Is this
here biznuss a durned bluff, George?”
“We’ll let the district attorney be the judge of that, sheriff,” was my
bland reply. “Come--let’s go to the dining-room.”
In the meantime I had sent a messenger boy round town to look up Judge
Cushion, my senior counsel in the New Hampshire trial. I wanted him
near in case of an emergency. He arrived about the time we finished our
meal. He sat with us, and I told him of the fate of the indictments.
It was news to him, and I received his warm congratulations with
satisfaction. Then I told him of the arrest and of the message I’d
sent to District Attorney Lane. He smiled significantly. While telling
the judge all this, I took no little delight in watching the various
changes which appeared on the sheriff’s face. After waiting an hour,
I wrote another message, similar to the first, and sent it to Lane.
Another hour passed and still no reply from either. In the meanwhile
Sheriff Stebbins was getting more and more nonplussed and uneasy.
I wired to the telegraph operator at Keene to know if my messages
had been delivered to District Attorney Lane. I showed Stebbins the
answer:--
“Both messages were delivered, personally, to F. F. Lane.”
Stebbins was absolutely worried. He had serious doubts that he’d made a
smart move in arresting me. Finally, he opened up, with much confusion
of speech, a discussion with Judge Cushion.
“What ’u’d ye advise me tew dew, jedge?” he asked anxiously. I secretly
enjoyed his discomfiture.
“Well,” said Cushion, “you can hold Mr. White for twenty-four hours,
but let me tell you, if District Attorney Lane doesn’t want him, you’ll
be in a pretty pickle. It will be a clean case of lawsuit, and you’ll
be the defendant without a leg to hobble on. In view of Mr. White’s
statement, I can’t see any other outcome. It seems that you’ve arrested
him without proper authority.”
“B’ gummany Christmus!” ejaculated the sheriff, wiping his perspiring
face with a much-soiled handkerchief. “I hev cut a mus’ melon, an’ no
mistake! What’ll I dew, jedge, anyhow? Ef ye wuz in my place, what ’u’d
ye dew?”
“I prefer not to advise you, sheriff, but if, as you say, I had gotten
myself in your predicament, I’d confess I’d made a big mistake an’ tell
the prisoner to go his way in peace, as quick as he wanted to.”
Sheriff Stebbins jumped at this solution of his troubles, like a
startled rabbit to cover. I was set free, but I didn’t leave until I
had made the sheriff very contrite and fully understand that he had
seriously interfered with my lawful rights. Bidding farewell to Judge
Cushion, I was about to go, when Stebbins said I’d not be able to get
out of Charlestown that night, the last train having gone.
“But I’ll drive ye to Bellows Falls,” he volunteered anxiously, “an’
thet’ll help ye ’long a lot.”
I was truly glad to accept the offer. After a tedious journey, I was at
last on board a train _en route_ to the metropolis.
During these months I had tried in every way imaginable to get back the
property so unlawfully taken from me, but being handicapped by lapse of
time and by the prejudices of influential people, I signally failed.
It did me no good to make clear to the authorities that my property
had been taken from me by means palpably unlawful,--to show that the
suit in tort brought in Middlesex County, Massachusetts, by Herbert
Bellows, was never tried; for when I sued Sheriff White, who attached
my property, he had nothing to satisfy the judgment. All I accomplished
was to make plain the illegality of Herbert Bellows’s procedure, and
show belated, though ample, proof of the diabolical conspiracy against
me.
Two years after my experience with Sheriff Stebbins I accidentally
met “Spress” Babbitt on board a New London steamboat on the way to
New York. We met in the saloon cabin. He turned pale and was visibly
agitated as I strode up to him.
“Here, Babbitt,” I said, trying to repress my anger, “that was a nice
show you made of me at Charlestown.”
He sputtered considerably, mumbled more, and altogether I couldn’t
understand what he was trying to say. I went on, “I’ve a great mind to
throw you over the rail and make you swim ashore,” and I lunged forward
as though to grasp him. He shrank back and trembled violently.
“Don’t be alarmed,” I said; “you’re not worth it.”
He found his voice then and whimpered that he didn’t want to cause my
arrest, but that others had urged him to do it. The mean little imp
wasn’t man enough to admit his blame, but must shift it, if possible,
to other and innocent shoulders.
“Stuff,” I growled; “you see the error you committed--there was nothing
against me. Good night, Babbitt, and I hope for your sake we don’t meet
again on this boat.”
He disappeared into his state-room and didn’t come out until after we
touched the New York shore the following morning.