A GOOD BAG.
“Whither next?” the Camera Chap inquired, after he had confided to his
two companions in the big touring car the details of what had happened
inside Dutch Louie’s café.
“I know a cop who goes to sleep every night in a lumber yard on his
beat,” Parson announced.
“Lead us to him!” said Hawley eagerly. “That sounds like an easy one,
eh, Fred?”
“I really think we’ve got enough already,” Carroll replied anxiously.
“After what you’ve just done, old man, I’m beginning to believe that you
can get away with anything; but what’s the use of running any more risk
than is necessary? You’ve got two good snapshots, and that is quite
enough to illustrate our story. Let’s call it a night’s work, Frank, and
not tempt fate any more.”
Hawley laughed at this suggestion. “Nothing doing,” he said. “I shan’t
consider that we’ve done our duty until we have at least a round half
dozen snapshots of delinquent cops in our collection. No use being a
piker, Fred. Two pictures on the front page of the _Bulletin_ would make
a measly showing. Besides, as I said before, I am by no means confident
that Red Horgan’s picture will turn out well. If it’s too poor a
negative for reproduction, that would leave us with only one. Lead the
way to the cop in the woodpile, Parsons. We certainly can’t afford to
pass him up. Is his beat far from here?”
“Yes; it’s at the extreme northern end of the town,” the police reporter
replied.
“Don’t you know any others we’ll pass on the way there?” Hawley
inquired. “We might as well take them in regular order. It’s growing
late, and we haven’t any time to lose.”
“Yes; there’s Mike Harrington, whose beat is on Cedar Street,” Parsons
replied promptly. “He generally hangs out in Windmuller’s Café when he’s
on night duty. His brother is employed there.”
“Great stuff!” exclaimed the Camera Chap gleefully. “We’ll pay our
respects to Patrolman Harrington before we disturb the slumbers of our
friends in the woodpile. Is he a pinochle player, too, Parsons?”
“I don’t think so,” the reporter answered, with a laugh. “You’ll most
likely catch him in the act of diminishing Windmuller’s stock of goods.
He’d have been ‘broke’ long ago for bad habits if it hadn’t been for his
pull. His father is a member of the city council and one of Mayor
Henkle’s most energetic political workers.”
“Oldham certainly has some police department!” Hawley chuckled. “Please
stop a short distance away from Windmuller’s place, old man. It wouldn’t
do to drive right up to the door.”
Carroll turned anxiously to the Camera Chap. “Do me a favor, Frank, and
cut this one out,” he pleaded. “There’s no sense in taking such
desperate chances. Windmuller’s place is almost as tough a joint as
Dutch Louie’s. Let Harrington alone, and pass on to some easier ones.”
“I guess this thing is going to be easy enough,” Hawley said
confidently. “I intend to work that bromo-seltzer trick over again. I
don’t see why it shouldn’t succeed as well in Windmuller’s place as in
Dutch Louie’s. In fact, I stand a much better chance of getting away
with it this time, for I know beforehand just what I’m going to do, and
can proceed with calm deliberation. Besides, practice makes perfect, you
know.”
Carroll shook his head deprecatingly; but he realized that argument was
useless, and made no further attempt to dissuade his rash and impetuous
friend.
Although the Camera Chap’s adventures that night were eventful enough to
be worth recording fully, limitations of space render it inexpedient to
describe them all in detail here.
In the main, his experience inside Windmuller’s place was similar to
what had happened at Dutch Louie’s. Once more he affected a bad
headache, and called upon the waiter to bring him a dose of bromo
seltzer; and when the white powder was placed before him, he made the
same use of it as he had done in the former instance.
Greatly to the relief of his two companions, he emerged from the place
unscathed, and laughingly assured him that he had succeeded in
snapshotting Patrolman Harrington, and had reason to believe that the
negative would be a fairly good one.
Compared with this exploit, the taking of a flash-light picture of the
policeman who was slumbering in a lumber yard at the northern end of the
town was not a difficult matter. Hawley succeeded in getting a
first-class snapshot of this sleeping beauty, and although the bluecoat
was awakened by the setting off of the flash-light powder, and,
bellowing with rage, chased the Camera Chap through the piles of lumber,
the latter managed to reach the automobile in time to make a safe
get-away.
Although he now had four snapshots of delinquent policemen, and Carroll
again pleaded that these were quite sufficient for their purpose, the
Camera Chap was firm in his determination not to give up the hunt until
the _Bulletin’s_ collection consisted of at least six negatives.
Parsons had reached his limit. He was unable to suggest where any more
members of the force whom he knew to be chronic shirkers might be found
that night; but even this fact could not discourage Hawley. He declared
confidently that if they rode around town a bit, and kept their eyes
open, they were likely to pick up a couple of random snapshots to
complete their night’s work.
So, while the citizens of Oldham slept peacefully on, in utter ignorance
of this enterprising effort that was being made to reform conditions in
their town--and incidentally to increase the circulation of the
_Bulletin_--the big touring car traversed the highways and byways in
search of more blue-coated victims of this relentless photographic
crusade.
This search was not unproductive. As the Camera Chap and his friends
rode through Main Street, they suddenly encountered the most sensational
and the most shameful spectacle of the night--a man in the uniform of a
captain of police so merry that he could scarcely stand.
“That’s Captain Alf Callman--the worst grafter and the biggest bully of
the department, barring Chief Hodgins,” exclaimed Parsons excitedly, as
he brought the car to a stop. “Don’t fail to get a good picture of him,
Mr. Hawley. This is a rare piece of luck. If ever there was a rascal who
deserved to be held up to public scorn and ridicule, it’s that brute
there.”
“Yes, Frank,” said Carroll, a scowl upon his face, “we want his picture,
by all means. A few weeks ago he beat up a crippled boy unmercifully for
selling _Bulletins_ outside police headquarters.”
The Camera Chap’s face grew grim. “And you mean to say you let him get
away with that?” he exclaimed, in astonishment.
“I did all that I could,” replied the proprietor of the _Bulletin_. “I
preferred charges against him in court, and I’ve been roasting him on
the front page of the paper every day since. But his pull enabled him to
have the case thrown out of court, and the _Bulletin’s_ roasts don’t
seem to have worried him much. He’s too thick-skinned to care what’s
said or printed about him.
“But, thick-skinned as he is,” Carroll went on, “I’ll bet he’ll rave
when he sees his picture on our front page, showing him in that
condition. That’ll hurt him more than anything else I can think of. So
be sure to get a good snapshot of him, Frank; one that’ll show the
public just what a beast he is.”
The taking of this flash-light picture was an easy matter, and there was
no risk attached, for Captain Alf Callman was too happy to realize what
was happening, and merely grinned fatuously when the flash went off.
Nevertheless, Hawley had never in all his career as a camera man derived
more satisfaction from the taking of a snapshot.
The last picture of the night was that of a policeman whom they
discovered a few blocks farther on, fast asleep in a doorway. He was so
dazed by the flash light that the Camera Chap had no difficulty in
getting away.
Having added this trophy to his collection, Hawley turned to Carroll
with a satisfied smile.
“Now, I guess we can go home,” he said. “I think we’ve done a fairly
good night’s work.”
“The best ever!” chuckled the proprietor of the _Bulletin_. “If these
pictures of yours turn out all right, I’ve got an idea that they’ll stir
this old town as it’s never been stirred before.”