Kitabı oku: «The Boss, and How He Came to Rule New York», sayfa 6
“Th’ public,” said Old Mike, “is a sheep, while ye do no more than just rob it. But if ye insult it, it’s a wolf. Now this man insults th’ people. Better cut loose from him, Jawn; he’ll get ye all tor-rn to pieces.”
The split came when, by suggestion of Old Mike and
Big Kennedy, I refused to give my vote as alderman to a railway company asking a terminal. There were millions of dollars in the balance, and without my vote the machine and the railway company were powerless. The stress was such that the mighty Chief himself came down to Big Kennedy’s saloon – a sight to make men stare!
The two, for a full hour, were locked in Big Kennedy’s sanctum; when they appeared I could read in the black anger that rode on the brow of the Chief how Big Kennedy had declined his orders, and now stood ready to abide the worst. Big Kennedy, for his side, wore an air of confident serenity, and as I looked at the pair and compared them, one black, the other beaming, I was surprised into the conviction that Big Kennedy of the two was the superior natural force. As the Chief reached the curb he said:
“You know the meaning of this. I shall tear you in two in the middle an’ leave you on both sides of the street!”
“If you do, I’ll never squeal,” returned Big Kennedy carelessly. “But you can’t; I’ve got you counted. I can hold the ward ag’inst all you’ll send. An’ you look out for yourself! I’ll throw a switch on you yet that’ll send you to th’ scrapheap.”
“I s’ppose you think you know what you’re doin’?” said the other angrily.
“You can put a bet on it that I do,” retorted Big Kennedy. “I wasn’t born last week.”
That evening as we sat silent and thoughtful, Big Kennedy broke forth with a word.
“I’ve got it! You’re on speakin’ terms with that old duffer, Morton, who’s forever talkin’ about bein’ a taxpayer. He likes you, since you laid out Jimmy the Blacksmith that time. See him, an’ fill him up with th’ notion that he ought to go to Congress. It won’t be hard; he’s sure he ought to go somewhere, an’ Congress will fit him to a finish. In two days he’ll think he’s on his way to be a second Marcy. Tell him that if his people will put him up, we’ll join dogs with ‘em an’ pull down th’ place. You can say that we can’t stand th’ dishonesty an’ corruption at th’ head of Tammany Hall, an’ are goin’ to make a bolt for better government. We’ll send the old sport to Congress. He’ll give us a bundle big enough to fight the machine, an’ plank dollar for dollar with it. An’ it’ll put us in line for a hook-up with th’ reform bunch in th’ fight for th’ town next year. It’s the play to make; we’re goin’ to see stormy weather, you an’ me, an’ it’s our turn to make for cover. We’ll put up this old party, Morton, an’ give th’ machine a jolt. Th’ Chief’ll leave me on both sides of th’ street, will he? I’ll make him think, before he’s through, that he’s run ag’inst th’ pole of a dray.”
CHAPTER X – HOW JIMMY THE BLACKSMITH DIED
BIG KENNEDY was right; the reputable old gentleman rose to that lure of Congress like any bass to any fly. It was over in a trice, those preliminaries; he was proud to be thus called upon to serve the people. Incidentally, it restored his hope in the country’s future to hear that such tried war-dogs of politics as Big Kennedy and myself were making a line of battle against dishonesty in place. These and more were said to me by the reputable old gentleman when I bore him that word how Big Kennedy and I were ready to be his allies. The reputable old gentleman puffed and glowed with the sheer glory of my proposal, and seemed already to regard his election as a thing secured.
In due course, his own tribe placed him in nomina-ton. That done, Big Kennedy called a meeting of his people and declared for the reputable old gentleman’s support. Big Kennedy did not wait to be attacked by the Tammany machine; he took the initiative and went to open rebellion, giving as his reason the machine’s corruption.
“Tammany Hall has fallen into the hands of thieves!” shouted Big Kennedy, in a short but pointed address which he made to his clansmen. “As an honest member of Tammany, I am fighting to rescue the organization.”
In its way, the move was a master-stroke. It gave us the high ground, since it left us still in the party, still in Tammany Hall. It gave us a position and a battle-cry, and sent us into the conflict with a cleaner fame than it had been our wont to wear.
In the beginning, the reputable old gentleman paid a pompous visit to Big Kennedy. Like all who saw that leader, the reputable old gentleman came to Big Kennedy’s saloon. This last was a point upon which Big Kennedy never failed to insist.
“Th’ man,” said Big Kennedy, “who’s too good to go into a saloon, is too good to go into politics; if he’s goin’ to dodge th’ one, he’d better duck the’ other.”
The reputable old gentleman met this test of the barrooms, and qualified for politics without a quaver. Had a barroom been the shelter of his infancy, he could not have worn a steadier assurance. As he entered, he laid a bill on the bar for the benefit of the public then and there athirst. Next he intimated a desire to talk privately with Big Kennedy, and set his course for the sanctum as though by inspiration. Big Kennedy called me to the confab; closing the door behind us, we drew together about the table.
“Let’s cut out th’ polite prelim’naries,” said Big Kennedy, “an’ come down to tacks. How much stuff do you feel like blowin’ in?”
“How much should it take?” asked the reputable old gentleman.
“Say twenty thousand!” returned Big Kennedy, as cool as New Year’s Day.
“Twenty thousand dollars!” repeated the reputable old gentleman, with wide eyes. “Will it call for so much as that?”
“If you’re goin’ to put in money, put in enough to win. There’s no sense puttin’ in just enough to lose. Th’ other fellows will come into th’ district with money enough to burn a wet dog. We’ve got to break even with ‘em, or they’ll have us faded from th’ jump.”
“But what can you do with so much?” asked the reputable old gentleman dismally. “It seems a fortune! What would you do with it?”
“Mass meetin’s, bands, beer, torches, fireworks, halls; but most of all, buy votes.”
“Buy votes!” exclaimed the reputable old gentleman, his cheek paling.
“Buy ‘em by th’ bunch, like a market girl sells radishes!” Then, seeing the reputable old gentleman’s horror: “How do you s’ppose you’re goin’ to get votes? You don’t think that these dock-wallopers an’ river pirates are stuck on you personally, do you?”
“But their interest as citizens! I should think they’d look at that!”
“Their first interest as citizens,” observed Big Kennedy, with a cynical smile, “is a five-dollar bill.”
“But do you think it right to purchase votes?” asked the reputable old gentleman, with a gasp.
“Is it right to shoot a man? No. Is it right to shoot a man if he’s shootin’ at you? Yes. Well, these mugs are goin’ to buy votes, an’ keep at it early an’ late. Which is why I say it’s dead right to buy votes to save yourself. Besides, you’re th’ best man; it’s th’ country’s welfare we’re protectin’, d’ye see!”
The reputable old gentleman remained for a moment in deep thought. Then he got upon his feet to go.
“I’ll send my son to talk with you,” he said. Then faintly: “I guess this will be all right.”
“There’s somethin’ you’ve forgot,” said Big Kennedy with a chuckle, as he shook hands with the reputable old gentleman when the latter was about to depart; “there’s a bet you’ve overlooked.” Then, as the other seemed puzzled: “You aint got off your bluff about bein’ a taxpayer. But, I understand! This is exec’tive session, an’ that crack about bein’ a taxpayer is more of a public utterance. You’re keepin’ it for th’ stump, most likely.”
“I’ll send my son to you to-night,” repeated the reputable old gentleman, too much in the fog of Big Kennedy’s generous figures to heed his jests about taxpayers. “He’ll be here about eight o’clock.”
“That’s right!” said Big Kennedy. “The sooner we get th’ oil, th’ sooner we’ll begin to light up.”
The reputable old gentleman kept his word concerning his son and that young gentleman’s advent. The latter was with us at eight, sharp, and brought two others of hard appearance to bear him company as a kind of bodyguard. The young gentleman was slight and superfine, with eyeglass, mustache, and lisp. He accosted Big Kennedy, swinging a dainty cane the while in an affected way.
“I’m Mr. Morton – Mr. James Morton,” he drawled. “You know my father.”
Once in the sanctum, and none save Big Kennedy and myself for company, young Morton came to the question.
“My father’s running for Congress. But he’s old-fashioned; he doesn’t understand these things.” The tones were confident and sophisticated. I began to see how the eyeglass, the cane, and the lisp belied our caller. Under his affectations, he was as keen and cool a hand as Big Kennedy himself. “No,” he repeated, taking meanwhile a thick envelope from his frock-coat, “he doesn’t understand. The idea of money shocks him, don’t y’ know.”
“That’s it!” returned Big Kennedy, sympathetically. “He’s old-fashioned; he thinks this thing is like runnin’ to be superintendent of a Sunday school. He aint down to date.”
“Here,” observed our visitor, tapping the table with the envelope, and smiling to find himself and Big Kennedy a unit as to the lamentable innocence of his father, “here are twenty one-thousand-dollar bills. I didn’t draw a check for reasons you appreciate. I shall trust you to make the best use of this money. Also, I shall work with you through the campaign.”
With that, the young gentleman went his way, humming a tune; and all as though leaving twenty thousand dollars in the hands of some chance-sown politician was the common employment of his evenings. When he was gone, Big Kennedy opened the envelope. There they were; twenty one-thousand-dollar bills. Big Kennedy pointed to them as they lay on the table.
“There’s the reformer for you!” he said. “He’ll go talkin’ about Tammany Hall; but once he himself goes out for an office, he’s ready to buy a vote or burn a church! But say! that young Morton’s all right!” Here Big Kennedy’s manner betrayed the most profound admiration. “He’s as flossy a proposition as ever came down th’ pike.” Then his glance recurred doubtfully to the treasure. “I wish he’d brought it ‘round by daylight. I’ll have to set up with this bundle till th’ bank opens. Some fly guy might cop a sneak on it else. There’s a dozen of my best customers, any of whom would croak a man for one of them bills.”
The campaign went forward rough and tumble. Big Kennedy spent money like water, the Red Jackets never slept, while the Tin Whistles met the plug-uglies of the enemy on twenty hard-fought fields.
The only move unusual, however, was one made by that energetic exquisite, young Morton. Young Morton, in the thick from the first, went shoulder to shoulder with Big Kennedy and myself. One day he asked us over to his personal headquarters.
“You know,” said he, with his exasperating lisp, and daintily adjusting his glasses, “how there’s a lot of negroes to live over this way – quite a settlement of them.”
“Yes,” returned Big Kennedy, “there’s about three hundred votes among ‘em. I’ve never tried to cut in on ‘em, because there’s no gettin’ a nigger to vote th’ Tammany ticket.”
“Three hundred votes, did you say?” lisped the youthful manager. “I shall get six hundred.” Then, to a black who was hovering about: “Call in those new recruits.”
Six young blacks, each with a pleasant grin, marched into the room.
“There,” said young Morton, inspecting them with the close air of a critic, “they look like the real thing, don’t they? Don’t you think they’ll pass muster?”
“An’ why not?” said Big Kennedy. “I take it they’re game to swear to their age, an’ have got sense enough to give a house number that’s in th’ district?”
“It’s not that,” returned young Morton languidly. “But these fellows aren’t men, old chap, they’re women, don’t y’ know! It’s the clothes does it. I’m going to dress up the wenches in overalls and jumpers; it’s my own little idea.”
“Say!” said Big Kennedy solemnly, as we were on our return; “that young Morton beats four kings an’ an ace. He’s a bird! I never felt so much like takin’ off my hat to a man in my life. An’ to think he’s a Republican!” Here Big Kennedy groaned over genius misplaced. “There’s no use talkin’; he ought to be in Tammany Hall.”
The district which was to determine the destinies of the reputable old gentleman included two city wards besides the one over which Big Kennedy held sway. The campaign was not two weeks old before it stood patent to a dullest eye that Big Kennedy, while crowded hard, would hold his place as leader in spite of the Tammany Chief and the best efforts he could put forth. When this was made apparent, while the strife went forward as fiercely as before, the Chief sent overtures to Big Kennedy. If that rebellionist would return to the fold of the machine, bygones would be bygones, and a feast of love and profit would be spread before him. Big Kennedy, when the olive branch was proffered, sent word that he would meet the Chief next day. He would be at a secret place he named.
“An’ tell him to come alone,” said Big Kennedy to the messenger. “That’s th’ way I’ll come; an’ if he goes to ringin’ in two or three for this powwow, you can say to him in advance it’s all off.”
Following the going of the messenger, Big Kennedy fell into a brown study.
“Do you think you’ll deal in again with the Chief and the machine?” I asked.
“It depends on what’s offered. A song an’ dance won’t get me.”
“But how about the Mortons? Would you abandon them?”
Big Kennedy looked me over with an eye of pity. Then he placed his hand on my head, as on that far-off day in court.
“You’re learnin’ politics,” said Big Kennedy slowly, “an’ you’re showin’ speed. But let me tell you: You must chuck sentiment. Quit th’ Mortons? I’ll quit ‘em in a holy minute if th’ bid comes strong enough.”
“Would you quit your friends?”
“That’s different,” he returned. “No man ought to quit his friends. But you must be careful an’ never have more’n two or three, d’ye see. Now these Mortons aint friends, they’re confed’rates. It’s as though we happened to be members of the same band of porch-climbers, that’s all. Take it this way: How long do you guess it would take the Mortons to sell us out if it matched their little game? How long do you think we’d last? Well, we’d last about as long as a drink of whisky.” Big Kennedy met the Chief, and came back shaking his head in decisive negative.
“There’s nothin’ in it,” he said; “he’s all for playin’ th’ hog. It’s that railway company’s deal. Your vote as Alderman, mind you, wins or loses it! What do you think now he offers to do? I know what he gets. He gets stock, say two hundred thousand dollars, an’ one hundred thousand dollars in cold cash. An’ yet he talks of only splittin’ out fifteen thousand for you an’ me! Enough said; we fight him!”
Jimmy the Blacksmith, when, in response to Big Kennedy’s hint, he “followed Gaffney,” pitched his tent in the ward next north of our own. He made himself useful to the leader of that region, and called together a somber bevy which was known as the Alley Gang. With that care for himself which had ever marked his conduct, Jimmy the Blacksmith, and his Alley Gang, while they went to and fro as shoulder-hitters of the machine, were zealous to avoid the Tin Whistles, and never put themselves within their reach. On the one or two occasions when the Tin Whistles, lusting for collision, went hunting them, the astute Alleyites were no more to be discovered than a needle in the hay.
“You couldn’t find ‘em with a search warrant!” reported my disgusted lieutenant. “I never saw such people! They’re a disgrace to th’ East Side.”
However, they were to be found with the last of it, and it would have been a happier fortune for me had the event fallen the other way.
It was the day of the balloting, and Big Kennedy and I had taken measures to render the result secure. Not only would we hold our ward, but the district and the reputable old gentleman were safe. Throughout the morning the word that came to us from time to time was ever a white one. It was not until the afternoon that information arrived of sudden clouds to fill the sky. The news came in the guise of a note from young Morton:
“Jimmy the Blacksmith and his heelers are driving our people from the polls.”
“You know what to do!” said Big Kennedy, tossing me the scrap of paper.
With the Tin Whistles at my heels, I made my way to the scene of trouble. It was full time; for a riot was on, and our men were winning the worst of the fray. Clubs were going and stones were being thrown.
In the heart of it, I had a glimpse of Jimmy the Blacksmith, a slungshot to his wrist, smiting right and left, and cheering his cohorts. The sight gladdened me. There was my man, and I pushed through the crowd to reach him. This last was no stubborn matter, for the press parted before me like water.
Jimmy the Blacksmith saw me while yet I was a dozen feet from him. He understood that he could not escape, and with that he desperately faced me. As I drew within reach, he leveled a savage blow with the slungshot. It would have put a period to my story if I had met it. The shot miscarried, however, and the next moment I had rushed him and pinned him against the walls of the warehouse in which the precinct’s polls were being held.
“I’ve got you!” I cried, and then wrenched myself free to give me distance.
I was to strike no blow, however; my purpose was to find an interruption in midswing. While the words were between my teeth, something like a sunbeam came flickering by my head, and a long knife buried itself vengefully in Jimmy the Blacksmith’s throat. There was a choking gurgle; the man fell forward upon me while the red torrent from his mouth covered my hands. Then he crumpled to the ground in a weltering heap; dead on the instant, too, for the point had pierced the spine. In a dumb chill of horror, I stooped and drew forth the knife. It was that weapon of the Bowery pawnshop which I had given the Sicilian.
CHAPTER XI – HOW THE BOSS STOOD AT BAY FOR HIS LIFE
WHEN I gave that knife to the Sicilian, I had not thought how on the next occasion that I encountered it I should draw it from the throat of a dead and fallen enemy. With the sight of it there arose a vision of the dark brisk face, the red kerchief, and the golden earrings of him to whom it had been presented. In a blurred way I swept the throng for his discovery. The Sicilian was not there; my gaze met only the faces of the common crowd – ghastly, silent, questioning, staring, as I stood with knife dripping blood and the dead man on the ground at my feet. A police officer was pushing slowly towards me, his face cloudy with apology.
“You mustn’t hold this ag’inst me,” said he, “but you can see yourself, I can’t turn my blind side to a job like this. They’d have me pegged out an’ spread-eagled in every paper of th’ town.”
“Yes!” I replied vaguely, not knowing what I said. “An’ there’s th’ big Tammany Chief you’re fightin’,” went on the officer; “he’d just about have my scalp, sure. I don’t see why you did it! Your heart must be turnin’ weak, when you take to carryin’ a shave, an’ stickin’ people like pigs!”
“You don’t think I killed him!” I exclaimed.
“Who else?” he asked.
The officer shrugged his shoulders and turned his hands palm upwards with a gesture of deprecation. To the question and the gesture I made no answer. It came to me that I must give my Sicilian time to escape. I could have wished his friendship had taken a less tropical form; still he had thrown that knife for me, and I would not name him until he had found his ship and was safe beyond the fingers of the law. Even now I think my course a proper one. The man innocent has ever that innocence to be his shield; he should be ready to suffer a little in favor of ones who own no such strong advantage.
It was nine of that evening’s clock before Big Kennedy visited me in the Tombs. Young Morton came with him, clothed of evening dress and wearing white gloves. He twisted his mustache between his kid-gloved finger and thumb, meanwhile surveying the grimy interior – a fretwork of steel bars and freestone – with looks of ineffable objection. The warden was with them in his own high person when they came to my cell. That functionary was in a mood of sullen uncertainty; he could not make out a zone of safety for himself, when now Big Kennedy and the Tammany Chief were at daggers drawn. He feared he might go too far in pleasuring the former, and so bring upon him the dangerous resentment of his rival.
“We can’t talk here, Dave,” said Big Kennedy, addressing the warden, after greeting me through the cell grate. “Bring him to your private office.”
“But, Mr. Kennedy,” remonstrated the warden, “I don’t know about that. It’s after lockin’-up hours now.”
“You don’t know!” repeated Big Kennedy, the specter of a threat peeping from his gray eyes. “An’ you’re to hand me out a line of guff about lockin’-up hours, too! Come, come, Dave; it won’t do to get chesty! The Chief an’ I may be pals to-morrow. Or I may have him done for an’ on th’ run in a month. Where would you be then, Dave? No more words, I say: bring him to your private office.”
There was no gainsaying the masterful manner of Big Kennedy. The warden, weakened with years of fear of him and his power, grumblingly undid the bolts and led the way to his room.
“Deuced wretched quarters, I should say!” murmured young Morton, glancing for a moment inside the cell. “Not at all worth cutting a throat for.”
When we were in the warden’s room, that master of the keys took up a position by the door. This was not to Big Kennedy’s taste.
“Dave, s’ppose you step outside,” said Big Kennedy.
“It’s no use you hearin’ what we say; it might get you into trouble, d’ye see!” The last, insinuatingly.
“Mr. Kennedy, I’m afraid!” replied the warden, with the voice of one worried. “You know the charge is murder. He’s here for killin’ Jimmy the Blacksmith. I’ve no right to let him out of my sight.”
“To be sure, I know it’s murder,” responded Big Kennedy. “I’d be plankin’ down bail for him if it was anything else. But what’s that got to do with you skip-pin’ into th’ hall? You don’t think I’m goin’ to pass him any files or saws, do you?”
“Really, Mr. Warden,” said young Morton, crossing over to where the warden lingered irresolutely, “really, you don’t expect to stay and overhear our conversation! Why, it would be not only impolite, but perposterous! Besides, it’s not my way, don’t y’ know!” And here young Morton put on his double eyeglass and ran the warden up and down with an intolerant stare.
“But he’s charged, I tell you,” objected the warden, “with killin’ Jimmy th’ Blacksmith. I can’t go to givin’ him privileges an’ takin’ chances; I’d get done up if I did.”
“You’ll get done up if you don’t!” growled Big Kennedy.
“It is as you say,” went on young Morton, still holding the warden in the thrall of that wonderful eyeglass, “it is quite true that this person, James the Horseshoer as you call him, has been slain and will never shoe a horse again. But our friend had no hand in it, as we stand ready to spend one hundred thousand dollars to establish. And by the way, speaking of money,” – here young Morton turned to Big Kennedy – “didn’t you say as we came along that it would be proper to remunerate this officer for our encroachments upon his time?”
“Why, yes,” replied Big Kennedy, with an ugly glare at the warden, “I said that it might be a good idea to sweeten him.”
“Sweeten! Ah, yes; I recall now that sweeten was the term you employed. A most extraordinary word for paying money. However,” and here young Morton again addressed the warden, tendering him at the same time a one-hundred-dollar bill, “here is a small present. Now let us have no more words, my good man.”
The warden, softened by the bill, went out and closed the door. I could see that he looked on young Morton in wonder and smelled upon him a mysterious authority. As one disposed to cement a friendship just begun, the warden, as he left, held out his hand to young Morton.
“You’re th’ proper caper!” he exclaimed, in a gush of encomium; “you’re a gent of th’ right real sort!” Young Morton gazed upon the warden’s outstretched hand as though it were one of the curious things of nature. At. last he extended two fingers, which the warden grasped.
“This weakness for shaking hands,” said young Morton, dusting his gloved fingers fastidiously, “this weakness for shaking hands on the part of these common people is inexcusable. Still, on the whole, I did not think it a best occasion for administering a rebuke, don’t y’ know, and so allowed that low fellow his way.”
“Dave’s all right,” returned Big Kennedy. Then coming around to me: “Now let’s get down to business. You understand how the charge is murder, an’ that no bail goes. But keep a stiff upper lip. The Chief is out to put a crimp in you, but we’ll beat him just th’ same. For every witness he brings, we’ll bring two. Do you know who it was croaked th’ Blacksmith?”
I told him of the Sicilian; and how I had recognized the knife as I drew it from the throat of the dead man.
“It’s a cinch he threw it,” said Big Kennedy; “he was in the crowd an’ saw you mixin’ it up with th’ Blacksmith, an’ let him have it. Them Dagoes are great knife throwers. Did you get a flash of him in the crowd?”
“No,” I said, “there was no sign of him. I haven’t told this story to anybody. We ought to give him time to take care of himself.”
“Right you are,” said Big Kennedy approvingly. “He probably jumped aboard his boat; it’s even money he’s outside the Hook, out’ard bound, by now.”
Then Big Kennedy discussed the case. I would be indicted and tried; there was no doubt of that. The Chief, our enemy, had possession of the court machinery; so far as indictment and trial were concerned he would not fail of his will.
“An’ it’s th’ judge in partic’lar, I’m leary of,” said Big Kennedy thoughtfully. “The Chief has got that jurist in hock to him, d’ye see! But there’s another end to it; I’ve got a pull with the party who selects the jury, an’ it’ll be funny if we don’t have half of ‘em our way. That’s right; th’ worst they can hand us is a hung jury. If it takes money, now,” and here Big Kennedy rolled a tentative eye on young Morton, “if it should take money, I s’ppose we know where to look for it?”
Young Morton had been listening to every word, and for the moment, nothing about him of his usual languor. Beyond tapping his white teeth with the handle of his dress cane, he retained no trace of those affectations. I had much hope from the alert earnestness of young Morton, for I could tell that he would stay by my fortunes to the end.
“What was that?” he asked, when Big Kennedy spoke of money.
“I said that if we have to buy any little thing like a juror or a witness, we know where to go for the money.”
“Certainly!” he lisped, relapsing into the exquisite; “we shall buy the courthouse should the purchase of that edifice become necessary to our friend’s security.”
“Aint he a dandy!” exclaimed Big Kennedy, surveying young Morton in a rapt way. Then coming back to me: “I’ve got some news for you that you want to keep under your waistcoat. You know Billy Cassidy – Foxy Billy – him that studied to be a priest? You remember how I got him a post in th’ Comptroller’s office. Well, I sent for him not an hour ago; he’s goin’ to take copies of th’ accounts that show what th’ Chief an’ them other highbinders at the top o’ Tammany have been doin’. I’ll have the papers on ‘em in less’n a week. If we get our hooks on what I’m after, an’ Foxy Billy says we shall, we’ll wipe that gang off th’ earth.”
“Given those documents, we shall, as you say, obliterate them,” chimed in young Morton. “But speaking of your agent: Is this Foxy Billy as astute as his name would imply?”
“He could go down to Coney Island an’ beat th’ shells,” said Big Kennedy confidently.
“About the knife which gave James the Horseshoer his death wound,” said young Morton. His tones were vapid, but his glance was bright enough. “They’ve sent it to the Central Office. The detectives are sure to discover the pawnbroker who sold it. I think it would be wise, therefore, to carry the detectives the word ourselves. It will draw the sting out of that wasp; it would, really. It wouldn’t look well to a jury, should we let them track down-this information, while it will destroy its effect if we ourselves tell them. I think with the start he has, we can trust that Sicilian individual to take care of himself.”
This suggestion appealed to Big Kennedy as good. He thought, too, that he and young Morton might better set about the matter without delay.
“Don’t lose your nerve,” said he, shaking me by the hand. “You are as safe as though you were in church. I’ll crowd ‘em, too, an’ get this trial over inside of six weeks. By that time, if Foxy Billy is any good, we’ll be ready to give the Chief some law business of his own.”
“One thing,” I said at parting; “my wife must not come here. I wouldn’t have her see me in a cell to save my life.”
From the moment of my arrival at the Tombs, I had not ceased to think of Apple Cheek and her distress. Anne would do her best to comfort her; and for the rest – why! it must be borne. But I could not abide her seeing me a prisoner; not for her sake, but for my own.
“Well, good-by!” said young Morton, as he and Big Kennedy were taking themselves away. “You need give yourself no uneasiness. Remember, you are not only right, but rich; and when, pray, was the right, on being backed by riches, ever beaten down?”
“Or for that matter, the wrong either?” put in Big Kennedy sagely. “I’ve never seen money lose a fight.”
“Our friend,” said young Morton, addressing the warden, who had now returned, and speaking in a high superior vein, “is to have everything he wants. Here is my card. Remember, now, this gentleman is my friend; and it is not to my fancy, don’t y’ know, that a friend of mine should lack for anything; it isn’t, really!”
