I HAD to be up that night too, and I had not been in long before he
arrived--just before daylight.
"Ben--Ben, awake, and get up! I've got it--I've got it--see here!" he
persisted, holding a piece of cardboard before my eyes now dazzled by
the sudden light. "Do you know what that is?" he roared, standing on
tiptoes while I gazed at it. He was more energetic and enthusiastic than
the night before, although he had not been to bed. His eyes appeared to
be a bit bloodshot.
Raising up in bed, I took the piece of cardboard and sat blinking at it
when, all of a sudden, Hiram lost patience.
"Damn it, Ben, can't you see what it is?--that's a piece of a ten-pound
sausage carton, and it came from Becker's place. Now then, we've got
'em," he said with suppressed voice. What he handed me was
unquestionably a part of a folding box, one of the corner locks, and a
part of the end on which there was tell-tale printing.
"You see, this sausage that was stolen was in ten-pound boxes, and this
is part of one of them," he insisted.
"Where did you get this, Hiram?" I finally managed to ask.
"I had to lie on one of the wharfs upstream until after midnight when
Becker's _Turgid_ came slipping down the current, like a thief, and I
had to leg it hard to keep up with her. About a mile below she slid in
alongside a Mexican, bound for Vera Cruz, unloaded a hundred and fifteen
tubs of something--it went down on the manifest as lard, and I guess it
was grease, anyhow. On her deck there still remained five bales of
something. I wanted to know what it was. The _Turgia_ then slid
downstream to the Southern Pacific docks and unloaded there. They billed
five bales of waste paper to New York. Yes, I got the name of the
consignee--Cassinis & Cassinis, Water Street--but I wondered how Becker
collected waste paper up there in that swamp and I didn't believe it was
waste paper. It was covered with burlap and baled tight.
"Do you see what this crafty old crook has done? He took the sausage out
of the folding boxes, which he laid out flat, then baled them carefully
and is shipping them to New York to get the best price and put such
evidence clear out of the way. Well, it cost me I don't know how many
drinks of water-front whiskey to get those watchmen in condition--there
were two of them--before I could dig into one of the bales for a sample.
I know it was tough on the watchmen, but there you are, and as sure as
shooting Becker & Co. got the stolen sausages and we've got to get
Becker before he has a chance to try to hang it on me, or some other
boob clerk.
"Ben, are you awake? do you understand what I am saying?" he asked,
giving my shoulder a tap that made me sway as though kicked by a mule.
"Yes, Hiram, I understand. Was there a Southern Pacific ship at the
dock?" I asked, rubbing my shoulder.
"No--the next ship is due to-morrow, and they're always late now."
"I believe you have something really tangible. I'll stop that shipment
this morning, but you'd better get to bed. And," I hastily added, "we
must have more than empty sausage cartons to make a case against him."
"I know that, and there is nothing doing in the way of sleep for me
now. The old man is down at a rummy, waiting to take me up to the canal
to see that boat. If the boat looks good to me, will you come and look
it over?" he asked, getting up and walking the floor like a caged lion.
"Yes--meet me here at noon, and in the meantime I'll try to learn
something about the matter----" But before I had time to finish he was
out of the room, going downstairs two steps at a time.
When I told Superintendent Kitchell that morning in his office as much
as I thought good for him to know at that time, and especially about
Hiram's plans and what he had already accomplished, his face began to
glow, and he otherwise evidenced intense interest.
"Taylor," he began, without any attempt now at inscrutability, "I would
give ten years of my life to have that robbery matter ferreted out
quickly. All the other division superintendents on the system are
laughing at me and the General Super and President are raising Hell. It
seems to me that the boy's theory as to how to round up the gang is
good, and I will help you all I possibly can. I've looked at Becker's
plant several times while passing and I think the boy is right. You
can't really get the goods on him without getting into his plant, and
that must be done by starting some kind of trade. Do you think he has
any chance of getting a boat?"
"He will, or rather may have, something definite about that before
night."
"I wonder----" hesitated the man of many troubles; "when I was up in
Memphis the other day I met the man in charge of the Illinois division.
He happened to mention that the state was killing whole herds of
tubercular-infected cattle there. I wonder if I couldn't get a few
carloads sent here and let the boy--Strong, did you say his name
was?--get in by boating them up to him--but you are not sure of
obtaining a boat?"
"I feel sure we can get some kind of a boat."
"Here is something--Ever since we entered the war Central and South
America have been revolution incubators, especially for Mexico. Some
never hatch but die in the shell, others hatch but die before they can
walk, then once in a while, out of the great number one of them grows
big enough to buy all sorts of ridiculous stuff they think they need or
want, and ship it down here. Then they get shot, macheted, put in prison
or exiled, and a lot of this stuff is never claimed, so we have to sell
it for freight charges. We've got a whole warehouse of that kind of junk
we should have disposed of long ago. Go down and look it over--anything
you can use I will see that you get it pronto. We've had about
everything except industry, virtue and honesty."
"Wire the Illinois division regarding the slaughtered cattle, and I will
look over your unclaimed freight. I may find something----"
"And do you think," he interrupted, sore to the bone at the thought,
"that it involves any one in the offices?"
I hesitated, recalling that I had not mentioned either Chief Clerk
Burrell or Miss Bascom, or their conversations with Becker. "Yes--Becker
couldn't work without some one to give him information about arrivals
and keep him posted at the river."
"Rotten--rotten!" he exploded; "just think of it, a mess like this
putrefying right under our noses and we don't get wise until they smell
it in Kansas City and Chicago. And now, Ben Taylor, while I feel sure
you are on the right track at last, and are going to make good, you seem
to be moving so maddeningly slow and deliberate." He said this with a
deep sigh from the depths of his waistband, his chubby hand fingering a
number of yellow slips used for official railroad messages and reminding
me of the mysterious one sent to Hiram about Becker & Co. receiving
freight by rail, but invariably shipping out by water.
"But, Mr. Kitchell, haste in this matter will be fatal to final
results," I said casually.
"Yes, perhaps--at any rate I hope that's so, but I'm so damnably worked
up over this matter that I am about wild. Then another thing, I don't
quite understand why you have so much confidence in this young Strong,
though I'll admit he shows good mettle. I recall at our first interview
you said he was well connected in the North?" said he, still glancing
nervously over the messages on his desk.
"Hiram Strong is well connected. He has inherited a great pride and
along with it what seems to be honor. He feels keenly the onus cast upon
him in this matter, but has withal a saving sense of humor. He is
working out his own salvation and feels he is heading off an attempt to
make him the goat--to him it is simply a matter of keeping out of jail.
He has, I believe, demonstrated that he can do head work as well as leg
work, and I feel like giving him room to turn around," I insisted,
perhaps too testily.
"I wonder if he is kin of this man Hiram Strong, who was reported this
morning as coming in on our system at Chicago in his private car. Do you
know, Taylor, I wish every private car was in hell--as though we didn't
have enough trouble already! Our passenger engines are loaded with every
pound they can keep rolling and every once in a while we get a private
car of some millionaire pork-sticker or quick-rich, who wants to come
down here to shoot ducks or some other fool thing. Do you think it is
the same man?" he demanded.
"It might be."
"Do you suppose the boy has got word to him, and he is coming down here
to raise the devil?" he asked, eyeing me as though I might have
something to do with it.
"As I understand it, from the boy, he was thrown out entirely on his own
resources--disinherited--and as far as appearances go, is completely
estranged from his father."
"Well, by Heaven, if he shows up here with a chip on his shoulder, I'm
going to turn him over to you--do you understand?--I'll turn him over to
you. You know all about it, and I've had a stomachful of educating rich
men's sons, and all the other troubles I want," he insisted,
disgustedly, as I started to go to my office.
"I will be glad to do all I can for you, Mr. Kitchell. Let me know as
far as possible in advance."
"I can tell you that right now. He is hooked to Number Seven, and is due
here to-morrow at 11:15, unless his old special car makes her late."