WAR IN TIMES OF PEACE.
Just before Jack called upon his Uncle Toby, Bill had expressed a desire
to stroll about the Great City.
"You see," Bill said in explanation, "the sight of old New York makes me
glad to be back again. They say it's a selfish place. Well, perhaps
there are towns that make you feel more at home, but once you know
Manhattan's ways, you don't want to change!"
"Have it your way," agreeably laughed Jack.
So they parted for the time being.
Feeling hungry, Bill decided to visit one of the select downtown
restaurants his purse seldom allowed him to patronize. Now, as the
reader will remember, Bill had no need to worry over funds--at any rate,
not for the immediate future.
Bill thoroughly enjoyed his meal. He left the restaurant feeling like a
prince.
"Those prices are steep," he reflected, "but the food and service are
worth it."
Barely had he walked a block when he recognized Tom Jukes a few strides
in front of him. Bill's first impulse was to hail Tom, but something
about the latter made him hesitate.
"Something seems queer," muttered Tom, puzzled. He was undecided. Should
he follow the millionaire's son?
Tom Jukes seemed anxious to avoid being seen. Every now and then he
glanced about him hurriedly. He kept close to the building line, his cap
pulled over his eyes. He turned into one of those ancient alleys down in
the financial district of New York.
Bill Raynor came to a quick decision.
"I'll follow him!" he muttered.
A moment later Bill was also in the moldy alleyway. Tom swung south,
then west, and south again, and finally halted before a pair of
ornamental iron gates of the most antique and peculiar design.
Bill, mystified that such places still existed in the Great Metropolis,
dogged Tom's footsteps, always careful to keep well out of sight.
He saw Tom pass through these iron gates. A moment later Bill had
followed Tom through, though now he had to be far more careful, for
every flagstone seemed to give up a hollow bellow.
Tom walked up an iron staircase clinging to a decaying bulk of a
dirt-gray stone ramshackle building. He climbed one flight and then
disappeared from view.
Bill, very carefully--every nerve alert--followed. A moment later he
stepped into a long, dim, lofty corridor, walled with marble of a
greenish tint, and smelling faintly of dry-rot.
Picking his steps with the greatest caution, Bill felt his way forward.
Somewhere in front of him he saw the shadowy form of Tom.
Bill saw Tom pause before a door, which he opened very slowly. A faint
light came from within. A moment later Tom had disappeared from view.
Bill crept forward.
Should he open the door?
"I wish Jack were here," said Bill to himself.
Jack, it was, who had won the approval of Jacob Jukes, head of the great
shipping combine, and father of Tom, for his masterly handling of many
difficult situations.
Under the circumstances, Bill did not flinch in his determination to
learn _what was going on behind that door_!
Bill put his ear to the door--and at once heard a faint _tick-tick_, as
well as a muffled voice. Slowly Bill felt the door for the knob and to
his surprise he found there was none!
"Entrance by signal only!" instantly decided Bill.
But how was he to get in without it?
His eyes were now more accustomed to the gloom. He looked about him,
hoping to find a window or some outlet that might lead to the barred
room.
Farther down the corridor, to his right, he saw a stairway--or what
appeared to be a stairway. He walked toward it, always bearing in mind
to be extremely careful.
He climbed up one flight without mishap. On this floor, the feeling of
desertion and forlorn desolation grew deeper. Bill could barely suppress
a shiver.
Suddenly a rat scampered across the floor.
"Phew!" ejaculated Bill, "this is _some_ place!"
He noticed a thin ray of daylight a short distance from him. Bill at
once decided to discover its origin. A moment later he saw that the
light flowed from the cracks of a door.
A brief investigation proved the door to be unlocked. As he quietly
pulled the door open he saw that the room was absolutely bare, and that
the light came from the mud-pasted windows facing a brick wall not five
feet from them.
Bill tip-toed across the room, and raised one of the windows. To his
satisfaction he at once noticed the drain pipe at arm's length. A moment
later he had slid to the floor below.
To his surprise he saw the window of that mysterious room wide open. He
could see only part of it. There seemed many men listlessly sitting
about, though the majority kept unseeing eyes on a blackboard.
"A blind tiger!" breathed Bill, amazed.
Bill meant that it was a fake racing broker's place. In years gone by
there were many such dens of evil in New York, where congregated the
broken-hearted, the reckless, the unscrupulous, all of whom tempted fate
on this horse or that. As a rule the proprietor controlled the destinies
of his victims, for he could "fake" any information he desired as to
what horse won or lost. Happily these dens are now more scarce than
hen's teeth. It was these dens, the graves of dupes, that were called
_blind tigers_.
"Does Tom play the ponies?" wondered Bill.
He listened intently.
Somewhere a ticker droned, and a husky voice announced:
"Gas a half--five eighths; Steel six--nine hundred at a quarter--a
thousand--five-hundred--a quarter--an eighth--Erie--an eighth--Steam--an
eighth----"
"What does this mean?" questioned Bill. "It sounds like stock
quotations. Can it be----?"
He decided to risk glancing into the room.
At some risk of losing his hold he balanced himself in order to
accomplish his wish.
He saw a room, unclean and unwholesome. The men seemed to be of the
discarded of the street, the diseased and maimed of the financial
district; here and there was a younger, smarter type, the kind that
makes the gangster, the pickpocket and worse. He also saw Tom sitting
quietly yet alert. At his elbow was a young man, somewhat older than
Tom. On the wall facing the window was a great blackboard, and as the
ticker spelled out its information, and the slovenly dressed clerk gave
it voice, a second clerk chalked away without cessation.
Beyond this clerk's announcements everything was quiet. Bill felt
himself slipping, so he silently swung back to his former position. The
light of understanding was in his eyes.
"By Jove, it's a bucket shop!"
Now a bucket shop is where people buy and sell stock on less margin or
in smaller quantity than is accepted on the curb on Broad Street or on
the Stock Exchange. These establishments, too, are fast disappearing,
though as is always possible in New York, an exception--as in all
directions of semi-organized crime--manages to keep from the sharp
talons of the law for a longer period of time.
The bucket shops were where messenger boys and clerks gamboled with Dame
Fortune. Sooner or later they lost--lost not only every cent to their
names, but much of their self-respect and honesty. It was also the place
for the men who had gone down to defeat in the great battle fought
bitterly every minute of the day in the great financial arena. These men
were unfit for everything else, so they turned to the bucket shops as a
drowning man grasps at a straw. But we have digressed enough--though
this was really necessary--and let us continue with the narrative.
Bill did not know what to make of it all.
Surely Tom Jukes had little need to play for stakes. His father was
sufficiently wealthy and knew the great money game, and its pitfalls,
not to have acquainted his son with them. The more Bill thought, the
more puzzled he became.
Suddenly he heard Tom shout:
"You robber, you thief!"
"Git out," bawled the voice, evidently that of the proprietor, "or I'll
have you put out!"
"You do, and I'll have you in the hands of the police within twenty-four
hours!"
"You will, will you?" came the snarling challenge, followed by a general
commotion.
"Here's where I take a hand!" decided Bill, and leaped into the room,
now in fearful confusion.
"Stop!" cried Bill, drawing his revolver, which he had a special permit
to carry at any time he wished, "or I'll fire!"
His command was obeyed.
"Stand where you are!" Bill demanded, noting a suspicious movement on
the part of several to escape.
"Bill, good old Bill!" exclaimed Tom, overjoyed.
"Yes, it's Bill," was the reply. "Call up Headquarters while I hold them
in line."
"That's your tip, Fred," said Tom, turning to the young man Bill had
noticed before. "On the run now!"
The young man called Fred seemed to need no further invitation.
Tom now joined Bill. From one of the drawers of the desk at which the
proprietor had been seated, Tom brought to light an ugly-looking Colt.
"Let's move 'em toward the rear!" suggested Tom. "Some of 'em are
showing signs of restlessness."
"All right!" acquiesced Bill.
So, at the point of the revolvers, everyone in the room was lined up
against the rear wall. The older men, who had seen better days, appeared
indifferent to it all. To them life meant very little. Spirit, youth,
ambition, success had long passed them by. They still clung to the vain
hope of winning something out of sheer habit. Stock gambling, like
opium, oftentimes urges on its victim until the sands of life slowly ebb
away. The younger no-accounts scowled darkly. But what could they do?
Those two lads were too business-like to attempt anything rash.
"Say," growled the proprietor, addressing Tom, "can't we call this
quits?"
"Nothing doing!" was the curt reply, both boys at once becoming more
alert that ever.
"Aw, take a joke," pleaded the man. "I'll square it with you. Honest I
will."
Both boys remained silent.
"I'll tell you what," continued the owner, "just to square myself, I'll
throw in one hundred dollars."
Silence.
"Five hundred!"
"You're going out of business," announced Tom. "Save your breath!"
"One thousand dollars!"
"One more word," warned Bill, "and I won't be responsible for my action.
Keep still."
Defeated, the man depicted his silent disdain.
A moment later Fred and the police arrived. The police captain in charge
wanted the boys to go along to press the charge, but Tom, upon quickly
satisfying the officer of their intentions of doing so the next
day--especially establishing that Tom was the son of Jacob Jukes, the
multimillionaire--were at liberty to proceed as they pleased.
"Explanations are now in order."
"Correct," replied Tom. "Let me first introduce Fred Strong, an old-time
friend of mine. Bill Raynor, one of the finest boys in the world!"
The introduction was acknowledged with appropriate remarks. Tom then
unfolded a most interesting story. Fred was a Wall Street clerk--and,
like many others, dabbled in stocks. He kept on losing. So, desperate,
he attempted to court luck at the bucket shop a friend of his had told
him of. For a time he won. His hopes rose. Then the inevitable reverses
began. The proprietor meanwhile had studied his victim. Fred, without
realizing it, became one of his dupes. He loaned money from every one.
He began to tamper with his books. Disgrace stared him in the face when
he met Tom. A few hours had straightened out all tangles. Tom, however,
insisted on bringing the bucket shop keeper to book.
"Well, that's all to it!" interspersed Tom.
"Hold on," expostulated Bill, "why did you sneak along the street as if
wishing to be unrecognized?"
"Easy," replied Tom. "Saw dad, across the street, so had to--as you
say--_sneak_."
"_Phew!_" whistled Bill, astonished. "I never saw him. One other point,
how did you know the revolver was in that desk?"
"It seems," answered Tom, "that the bucket shop proprietor made it a
practice to show new customers that weapon. I suppose it was an
effective reminder that all disagreements might be settled rather
abruptly."
"Well," chimed in Fred, "let us forget about it. I'll never play the
market again. But, boys, I want you to come with me. I have to tell this
story to the sweetest girl in town. You've got to meet her!"
"If you insist, lead on," replied Tom. "But suppose you tell her the
truth of the matter, and then,--well--I guess Bill and I will be
honored, I'm sure!"
Bill laughed outright.
"I never suspected," he said, "you had so much of the so-called 'society
sass'."
Tom chuckled with glee. He was highly satisfied with the first day's
adventure in America. In excellent spirits, the trio rode uptown. While
en route Bill briefly told, in turn, of catching sight of Tom, and the
consequences thereof.
An hour later Fred brought them to a neatly nestled house. There was a
hand-ball court on the property, and Fred saw to it that they were made
to feel at home. Then he entered the house.
"Elsie," said Fred, when first greetings were over and they were
comfortably settled, "I've something to tell you."
"What is it, Fred?"
"I--I couldn't buy you the engagement ring--be--because I lost the
money."
"That is _too_ bad! But don't mind it, dear. I can wait."
"It's nice of you to say it, but I lost the money on stocks."
"Tell me about it," she requested calmly, though there was a break in
her voice.
So Fred related the facts already familiar to us. Nor did he spare
himself in the recital. At its conclusion, there was a moment's silence.
Then----
"Fred," said the girl softly, "I'm glad you told me of this. Please,
Fred, don't gamble again--whether it be on cards or stocks--and if you
were younger--I'd add buttons and marbles."
"I've already promised not to do so--but Elsie, I have something else to
tell you. I have a new position at a higher salary--thirty dollars a
week."
"That's great!"
"It'll be more--if I make good."
"Fred, I'm _so_ glad."
A pause.
"The cost of living is very high now," asked Fred--"isn't it?"
"I should say so! Diamonds will soon be cheaper than onions or potatoes
or cut sugar."
"Elsie!"
"Yes?"
"Would you like--could you--I mean--er--do you think two persons could
live on thirty dollars a week?"
"_Certainly!_"
"How about _us_?"
"Oh, George!"
"Elsie!"
A blissful interval. Then--
"Elsie--I've completely forgotten! Those two boys I told you of are
playing handball. They insisted that I confess my crimes before you met
them!"
A moment later Fred was introducing Tom and Bill to Elsie. The young
lady's form of greeting was most unexpected and unconventional. Before
either of the boys could surmise her intention, she had kissed them!
Of course general laughter and banter followed. Of this let us say no
more.
The reader, however, may rest assured that the boys whose adventures we
have followed through six volumes were always true to American ideals
and aspirations. They participated in many strange and thrilling
adventures. We may write of these in the near future, but for the time
being, with every good wish for the bright future that appears assured
to them, we will bid farewell to the Ocean Wireless Boys.
THE END.
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Transcriber's Notes:
1. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
2. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation in the original document
have been preserved.
3. Underscores indicate text originally in printed in italics.