The Red Book Magazine/Volume 29/Number 5/The Blind Tiger

by Harris Dickson

 

The
Blind Tiger

By Harris Dickson

Who wrote those famous “Old Reliable” and
“Sunlover Sam” stories.

NOBODY knew why Vicksburg negroes should call him “Parson Goober,” except that his “squinched-up” face did most comically resemble a peanut. A parson without a pulpit, a preacher without a congregation, he was yet a man of dignity, thin, yellow, solemn-looking and innocently kind.

Amiably strolling the streets, with leisure for sympathetic hearkening unto negro troubles, he likewise contrived to keep on benevolent terms with white folks. So Shifty Pete Kino, proprietor of the “High Life Club,” conceived it would be a good business policy to employ the Parson.

Parson Goober felt convinced that prohibition had elevated the liquor traffic—to the second floor. Soap-frescoed mirrors, mahogany bars and brass foot-rails had disappeared from ancient strongholds, while faithful customers beat other paths to other lick-logs, their signs being plain as bear-trails through a cane-brake. Some of these signs frankly specified “Club Rooms,” with a painted finger indicating the stairway.

Only occasionally, when a complaisant citizenship manifested symptoms of stirring in its sleep, a well-advertised round-up would be staged by Dennis P. McGill, boss and unofficial superintendent of the city.

Parson Goober gleaned much authentic gossip in his daily meanderings. At Jones' Smokehouse he could always find somebody that he knew, could stand and talk with Mr. Jesse until some white friend dropped in to buy a cigar for himself—and for the Parson. Then, a gold-banded cigar in the southeast corner of his mouth, Parson would skirmish around the outskirts of every group which contained talkative white folks.

That's how Pete Kino happened to select the Reverend Goober, as a person of eminently respectable appearance, with a wide acquaintance among swell gents whose patronage Pete desired to cultivate.

Easily, tactfully, so as not to cause alarm, he accosted the negro: “Hello, old man.”

“Howdy, suh!” Parson was not suspicious but merely reserved, as the hatchet-faced stranger spoke to him.

“What might be your name?” pursued Pete.

“Reverend Andrew Jackson White.” Off came his tattered hat, showing the possum-gray wool.

“Are you out of a job?”

“No suh; I aint out o' nary job; I'm jes out o' work.”

“Wouldn't you like to work for me?”

“Whar 'bouts?”

“In a club—secret club.”

“Secret club?” The lure of it drew Parson closer. “I knows a heap 'bout burial-s'cieties an' sech—benefits an' so on.”

“We're looking for a good man to be grand steward.”

“Gran' steward! Huh! I used to be noble gardeen o' de Royal Circle o' David. What sort o' reegalia does I wear?”

Kino wasn't called “Shifty Pete” for nothing. By putting a red cap on the Parson's head and by calling him “grand steward” instead of barkeeper, Kino could secure enthusiastic service at five dollars less per week.

“Come along with me,” said Kino, feeling that he had his man hooked. “No; you better slip through that alley and climb the back steps. You know the way?”

“Yas suh,” Parson chuckled. “Dem wobbly steps—back yonder.”

“Very good. Meet me in the club. And don't say a word to nobody.”

“Huh! I never talks lodge bizness.”

Parson Goober's skimpy figure melted away from Washington Street and vanished into the dark mouth of an alley. The mystery of adventure appealed to him.

SHIFTY PETE kept smiling to himself as he went slowly up the carpeted stairs and viewed his prudent arrangements for dispensing booze. Pete was a newcomer in Vicksburg, destitute of political pull. True, he had a tacit understanding with Dennis P. McGill, but for instinctive reasons he mistrusted the boss and thought it safer not to place himself in personal peril. He would stand behind a partition and receive the cash while Parson Goober appeared in the limelight and served drinks. If the place were raided, Parson would be caught—not Pete.

Kino passed along an empty hall on the second floor, and opened the back door for Parson. At that hour the building was deserted except for two tinners working on the roof. Parson Goober paused to investigate a ladder which led upward through an open scuttle to the roof.

The building was one of those old two-story bricks on the west side of Washington Street. The second floor, formerly occupied as lawyers' offices, had been abandoned for more convenient skyscrapers. There were four rooms in a row, with a hallway from the front stair on Washington Street to the back steps, which dropped down into an alley.

Kino had built a stout partition across the front hall, so that customers entering from the street must turn into the front room at their left. This partition had a small door, well locked, and made doubly secure by a strong wooden bar.

“Where's de lodge-room?” Parson inquired as Kino led him forward.

In Vicksburg's hurly-burly days this had been a gambling establishment, the two front rooms being thrown together by folding doors. Kino had replaced these doors by another partition having but one small opening—two feet long and a foot wide—with a shelf resembling that below a ticket-seller's window at a railroad station. This little window immediately caught Parson's eye. It was closed by a revolving contrivance like an upright spool. Parson sidled toward the whirligig, touched it doubtfully and grinned: “Huh, I aint never seed nothin' like dis, 'cept dem storm-doors at de post office. Lord, Lord, I sho do love to git in dat post-office contraption an' push it roun' an' roun'.”

Parson turned the whirligig, and turned the whirligig, trying to peek through and see what was on the other side. But he couldn't catch a glimpse of anything in the second room. “Mister,” he asked, “is dis fer members to play wid?”

“Not exactly,” Kino explained; “members sit at these tables and talk. Of course if they want a lemonade, or something, they ask you for it—”

“Uhuh, 'cause I'm de gran' steward?”

“Precisely. Then you call through this window to the barkeep—the man in the next room; he fixes up what they want, puts it in this service-window and turns it around. You take out the drinks and serve them at the table—”

“Mister, wont he lemme turn it roun' sometimes? I loves to turn dis my own self.” Like a child, Parson Goober played with the whirligig and kept grinning.

“Sure! You must collect for the drinks, put the money in here and turn it around; and the barkeep—the man back yonder—gets it.”

“Huh! 'taint no difficulty. I kin do dat already.”

“Sure! It's easy. All you have to do is to look after members as they come in—”

“Let 'em in wid a password, an' de gran' hailin'-sign o' distress?”

“They'll be in distress, all right; distress is what brings 'em up here.”

“What's de gran' hailin'-sign?”

“They'll come in and ask for a drink.”

“Dat's a mighty good sign in dis town. S'posin' dey axes for sumpin' to eat?”

“The barkeeper'll fix that up—ham sandwiches and cheese—plenty to eat.”

“I likes dis job. When do I start?” “To-morrow evening at four o'clock.

“Come on now. Get out.”

ABOUT eight-thirty-five, “Steady Bill” Sessions called to his daughter: “Nellie, what's keeping Frank?”

“Don't know, Daddy,” she answered as she entered the room with her father's overalls and cap done in a neat package. “He'll come along, and you better be going to your engine.”

“Has Walter telephoned when he's coming home?”

“No, Daddy.” Nellie averted her eyes; she knew that her brother was drinking again.

After passing and recognizing Parson Goober at Judge Claiborne's gate, Frank Ward hurried on to his sweetheart's cottage, where she waited for him on the gallery.

“Frank,” she asked as he came up, “what's the matter?” Her keen eyes noted instantly that something had gone wrong.

“Nothing, dear; I want to see your father, and—no, don't you come in.” Frank closed the door behind him, and closed it on Nellie. She stopped and wondered.

“Mr. Sessions,”—Frank spoke hurriedly and low,—“come with me to the jail and get Walter. I brought an auto. Police wont let him go without you. Nobody else can handle him.”

Black wrath lowered on the face of Steady Bill:

“No; let him be. That's twice this week—three times last month. Let him wake up in jail—cold sober—and see how it feels.”

“But I don't want Nellie to know.”

Steady Bill seemed to shrink; then he opened the door: “Nellie,” he called, “come here. Walter's in jail again.”

“Oh, Daddy!”

“And I'm going to leave him there.”

“But Daddy, the shame of it—”

“Shame don't come from being in jail, but from deservin' it. I tell you, Frank, there aint no room on the railroad for a feller that drinks; Walter can't never pull my throttle when I'm gone. Good-by, Nell.” He took the girl into his big arms, “Frank, can't you sleep here to-night? I hate to leave Nellie alone.”

“Yes, I could; but I promised to go back for Walter.”

“Don't do it. And Nell, I wont have you ringin' up Denny McGill, begging him to get Walter out.”

“Yes, Daddy.” Then the burly engineer strode away with his bundle.

Frank and Nellie sat down on the steps. “Frank,” she asked, her eyes very big and black and serious, “Frank, you never drink at all?”

“Not often. Just a glass with a friend now and then.”

“That's the way Walter started, and—oh, Frank, I don't want to be foolish, but wont you promise, just for me, not to take any?”

“Why, Nellie, you needn't be afraid; liquor is no temptation to me.”

“I'm afraid of anybody that takes one drink. Couldn't you give it up, for my sake?”

“'Twont be giving up anything. I don't care for the stuff.”

“It would mean everything to me—”

“Sure, Nellie; I promise right now, if it makes you happier.”

“Oh, it does, it does!” And she wound her arms about his neck.

Next morning Nellie was up before the five-o'clock whistle had blown, cooking Frank's breakfast so he could get to his foundry promptly at six. Her dreams raced forward to the time when this would be her daily task and she need not invite Peg Dougherty to spend the night with her, just for the looks of the thing. After breakfast, Peg disappeared into the kitchen while Nellie followed Frank to the gate—for thoughtful Peggie had a sweetheart of her own. “Remember, Frank, you promised—and I'm so happy.”

Nellie and Peg tidied up the little house. Eight o'clock came before they knew it—eight o'clock, and Dennis P. McGill leaning over the front gate with an unlighted cigar in his mouth and a red rose in his buttonhole.

Nellie rarely let McGill catch her on the front gallery; he would come in and sit interminably. But Peg was here, and—Nellie made up her mind all of a sudden. Why shouldn't she get McGill to have Walter turned loose without a fine? It was the first time Nell Sessions had ever run to meet him, which loosened the blarney on McGill's tongue.

“Top o' the morning, little bright eyes! Stand close, colleen, for I've something to say.”

And Denny said it, so swiftly, so hotly, so impulsively, that Nellie tried to draw back, forgetting all about her brother.

McGill caught both her hands. “Nellie, me darlint, I want ye to marry me—now, now! It's hard I've worked for ye, me darlint; but come the next election, ye'll be the mayor's lady.” McGill lurched forward, and Nellie thanked Providence for the gate between them.

“Marry me—now—to-day.”

“I can't—I can't—” She didn't mean to jerk away so roughly.

“You can't! Why not?” He gripped the gate with two powerful hands. “It's somebody else, somebody else. It's that Frank Ward?”

Nellie's eyes didn't know how to lie. “I can't—I can't.” She turned and fled to the house.

McGill stood dazed; then he rattled the gate angrily. “Frank Ward! And she could be the mayor's lady.”

Denny McGill had jaws like a bulldog's; he generally held his grip until he got what he went after. Once Nellie had seen him on the street rather the worse for liquor and he knew that Frank Ward was held up as a model in that respect. Part of McGill's political success had been built upon the tearing down of models when they stood in his way. So Denny determined to tear down Frank Ward.

This put him in an ugly mood to meet the chief of police as he turned from Belmont Street into Washington.

“Look here, Sam.” McGill minced no words. “You've got to catch the thieves that plundered Judge Claiborne's house last night.”

“We've got a clue—”

“Hang the clues; get the man. Catch those burglars, or there'll be vacancies on the force—top to bottom—beginning at the top.”

A SLANTWISE sun glittered upon the western windows of Vicksburg and hurled a thousand yellow trails across the river. Parson Goober made his way gingerly down the steep sidewalk, turned, ducked into the alley below Washington Street and paused to observe if anybody noticed him. He carried a basket of considerable amplitude, because of intimations that lunches were served in the club. Wherever lunches were served, there would be scraps left over, and a basket would prove mighty handy.

He rambled on contentedly until rapid footsteps came pattering up behind. Parson whirled: “Hello, Skip,” he stuttered, “what makes you sneak up like dat?”

Skip Wingo approached confidentially close, with nervous legs and scary eyes, and whispered hurriedly: “I seen you comin'—here, take dis. I'll be at yo' house to-night. Don't let nobody see it.”

Skip thrust a small package into Parson's basket, under the cloth, and then loped off again. Midway of the alley he dropped into the backyard of a dilapidated shanty and vanished.

“Dat nigger's been up to some kind o' devilment, and—” The climbing of a stepladder staircase consumed Parson Goober's wind, and he ceased further communications to himself.

Shifty Pete beckoned him into the hall. “Time to open up in front,” he announced,

Pete went first, and Parson followed, taking precaution to pass around the ladder, for it was a sure sign of bad luck to go under. Pete unbarred the partition door in the hall and then hooked back the door at the head of the steps and pointed in at the front room. “Remember, old man,” he cautioned, “you are the boss; you have charge of everything.”

“Suttinly, suh; dat's what de gran' steward is for.”

“If anybody asks who's runnin' this place, tell 'em you are. And you can't remember my name, or the name of anybody who comes up here.”

“Sholy, suh!” Wisely the Parson nodded his possum-gray head. “It's dat way in all de lodges. I never talks outside.”

“Collect for drinks when you put 'em on the table.”

“Whar's my reegalia?”

“Your what?”

“Reegalia—for gran' steward—clo'es? Don't I tote a spear or a swo'd or sumpin'?”

“That part's all right; we'll get it to-morrow. Don't forget to collect; and remember, you are in charge of everything.”

When Pete Kino disappeared into the rear and locked and barred the partition-door, Parson Goober set his basket on a table and lifted the cloth, exposing a half-gallon jug with a corncob stopper and Skip Wingo's package wadded in a newspaper.

“Wonder what dis is?” He shook the paper and a blue-enameled watch rolled out in his palm, along with several rings and a breastpin. Parson had no chance to examine them, for somebody was tramping up the steps. He only knew for certain that it was a blue watch that he laid back in the bottom of his basket; then he hid the basket in a corner behind the serving-table. Two men came in, the first one a stranger, carrying a gripsack. “Old man, can we get a drink?” inquired one.

“Drink!” Parson Goober grinned at the passwords. “Set down, suh, set down.” The second man was Frank Ward. “Howdy, Mr. Frank,” said Parson.

TEN minutes before he came into the High Life Club, Frank Ward had been standing in front of Jones' Smokehouse. That's where Denny McGill first noticed him, when Joe Blair came up, with a hand-satchel, and slapped Frank on the back. As Joe Blair had just arrived in Vicksburg, was of a festive disposition and Ward's great friend, Denny suspected where this meeting would terminate. It did. They went straight to it, strolling up the street, Blair with the expression of a man who has just done time in a small, dry town. Denny followed them and observed from the opposite side of the street.

The two men halted at the foot of the High Life stairs, where Ward hung back. McGill feared that he wasn't going in, but Blair urged him and he went.

With his triggers ready set, McGill need only step into a telephone-booth and start all the machinery of the law. Nellie Sessions would have another think coming to her when she read in the morning paper that a notorious blind tiger had been raided and that the goody-goody Frank Ward was among the patrons held as witnesses. Having ordered the raid, McGill sauntered into a barber-shop from which he could watch the High Life door, and proceeded to purchase a luxurious hair-cut.

“WELL, Frank, what will you take?” Blair made himself comfortable at the corner table.

Ward had come upstairs unwillingly—had come only because he wanted to have a long talk with his friend.

“Thank you, Joe; I aint taking anything.”

“On the wagon?”

“Strictly.”

Parson Goober bent over most respectfully.

“Long toddy,” ordered Blair. “Let her come double,” he added, holding up two fingers.

Dubiously the Parson approached that whirligig contraption, tapped on the partition and whispered: Gentleman say he wants a drink.”

“Speak up, nigger; what'll the guy take?”

“Long toddy—two of 'em.”

Behind the partition Parson could hear the spatter of water and the rattle of ice. He wasn't so sure about this whirligig arrangement, but various audible symptoms gave him hope. Anxiously he listened to the thump of glasses being placed on the whirligig; then it began to revolve. There was no deception; right before his sparkling eyes, in a neat little three-cornered compartment, appeared two glasses of water, ice, sugar and spoons, with ponies of whisky on the side—everything proper and regular according to Hoyle.

“It works; it sho do work!” Parson grinned all over his wrinkle-work face.

Blair stirred his glass, poured in the red liquor and pledged his friend. Ward did not drink; neither was he ostentatious in pushing it aside. He simply let the toddy remain untasted, without assuming the grand, pure and noble crown of voluntary martyrdom.

PRESENTLY two men came in—then three more right behind them—all five taking the same table. Business was beginning to pick up.

“Here, nigger, trot out two straights, and three bottles o' beer. Rush 'em.”

“Yas suh; comin', suh.” Parson Goober was getting the hang of the system, and he liked it.

“Get a move on you, and rustle some ham bites!”

“On de fire, suh.” Trusting to the satisfactory performances of his whirligig, Parson would have promised a bale of hay spread with caviar.

Members arrived and continued to arrive. Some tramped assuredly up the stair and ordered. Others stole in furtively and whispered their needs. Parson Goober liquidated all demands. By six o'clock the room was comfortably full—likewise a couple of members. Nothing happened to mar the convivial serenity except Walter Sessions, who came blundering up the stair and fell in the entry. There he lay, dead to the world, and Parson Goober didn't know what to do. He rapped on the partition-door until Kino answered: “What do you want?”

“Drunken man lyin' here in de hall.”

“Throw him out.”

“No suh—not me! Dat's Mr. Walter Sessions, an' I'm skeered to rouse him.”

Kino opened the door suspiciously and scowled at the huddle of a man who lay there. He would have preferred to dump the drunk on the edge of the sidewalk for the garbage-cart to haul away. But that wouldn't be a good advertisement for his business.

“Here, nigger, catch hold.”

Together they bore the limp figure to the rear room, a perfectly empty room except for a tumble-down sofa in the corner. Lay him on dat,” Parson suggested; “he wont 'sturb nobody 'ceptin' when he snores.”

Kino didn't relish the idea of introducing a stranger behind the scenes. But it couldn't be helped, and he'd get the fellow down the back steps as soon as he was able to move.

Parson Goober hurried back to serve his clamorous customers and turned on the lights. There were probably twenty-five men sitting around. Parson liked his job. He wandered among the tables listening to all conversations, and frequently joined in. Suddenly his attention was absorbed by a conversation at the center table. They were talking about a burglary which had occurred the previous evening.

“Must have been a professional, and let himself in with a skeleton-key.”

“Maybe it was a nigger who hid himself inside before the family went to the movies.”

“Don't think so. Nigger would have snatched something to eat and drink. Judge Claiborne's cellarette stood open, and nothing touched.”

“Well, he made a good haul, and got away. That blue-enameled watch was worth three hundred—”

“Blue watch!” Parson Goober tossed his head like a scared mule and asked the white man: “Blue watch, Mister Willie—did you say blue watch?”

“Yes, Parson; and Mrs. Claiborne lost four valuable rings, a diamond bar-pin and—”

Parson-Goober continued to feel that same disagreeable hunch concerning Skip Wingo; and he continued to listen, with one eye cocked towards his basket.

“If it's a local nigger, they'll catch him. That blue watch is bound to show up.”

Somebody shouted for more drinks; Parson hustled two highballs and four bottles of beer in double-quick time; then he hurried back to his informant: “'Scuse me, Mister Willie, but when was dese things stole?”

“Last night between eight and ten.”

“An' you 'spec' some nigger got 'em?”

“Don't know. We'll find out when they grab a nigger with a blue watch—”

“Grab a nigger—”

“Yes, and it'll mean seven years in the pen' for him.”

“Seben! Seben!”—with a gurgle and a gasp from Parson Goober.

“Between seven and twenty-five.”

“Lawd Gawd, Mister, can't dey let him off no cheaper?”

“Not if they catch him with this watch, because there aint another one like it in Vicksburg.”

Crabwise, Parson Goober sidled away until he got near the basket; then he shoved it into a corner with his foot.

PARSON wasn't really expecting anybody to bother him; white folks never had bothered him. But this talk about seven years in the pen', for a blue watch, got him kinder fidgety. So it fell into Parson's mind to reconnoiter. He craned his long neck down the staircase and saw three policemen come sneak-sneak-sneaking up. The kinky gray hair rose at the back of his neck, rose so stringily that it jerked him on tiptoe. He wobbled forward, thrust out a swift hand and slammed the door. It was an old-fashioned door, a thick door. Parson Goober stood paralyzed in the entry; his heart went thumpity-thump as those officers blim-blammed upon the door.

“Huh, makin' a mighty lot o' fuss bout one little ol' blue watch!”

Every man in the room sprang up. At first there was an undecided shuffling of feet; then a voice whispered: “Sh! it's a raid. Keep still.”

Men stood silent, scarcely breathing; then one after one settled back into his chair.

“We're caught, Frank—held for witnesses! My wife'll hate it.”

Ward knew somebody else who would hate it, somebody who would lose faith in him.

Parson Goober seemed planted in his shivering tracks. He couldn't get away from that thumping which made his wisdom-teeth rattle. Suddenly the partition door opened behind him, and Kino's pasty face poked itself through the crack. “What's all that fuss?” demanded Kino.

“Policemen! Three of 'em! I to git out o' here—”

Parson threw his shoulder against the door and shoved Kino aside; then both of them raced through the dim-lighted hallway toward the rear. Both of them ran under the ladder—more bad luck.

Parson Goober's sole idea was to absent himself from three policemen and one blue watch. But he didn't crave to run slam-bang into two other policemen who were at that moment climbing the rear steps. As he could see them plainly,—and first,—they never caught a glimpse of him, for Parson dodged inside and locked the door.

“Get out! Get out!” Kino pushed him from behind, while Parson balked stubbornly.

“Can't git out dis way,” protested Parson. “Two more policemen comin' up dese steps—we's hemmed in.”

A single electric light burned in the narrow hallway. As Parson wheeled to run to the front again, he bumped his head against the ladder, which caused him to pause and ponder. Above him was a square space, wide open to the stars. That scuttle beckoned him to safety on a flat tin roof.

“I'm 'scapin' out dis way,” babbled Parson, and he scrambled up the ladder like a squirrel.

“Wait! Wait!” Kino snatched him backward by the left hind leg. An idea had struck Kino.

As a matter of precaution, Shifty Pete carried very little liquor in this retail establishment, fearing a raid and confiscation. His reserve stock was stored in a safer place. Given five minutes breathing time, he could pack up and whisk everything out of that scuttle. Bully!

“Here! Old man! You go and hold that front door—”

“Who? Me? Dat do' is got to hold its own self!”

While Kino and the barkeeper flung drinkables into sacks and boxes, the nimble Parson galloped to the front for his basket—and the blue watch. Frank Ward detained him, forcibly, with the basket on his arm. “Wait, Parson! Aint there no way to get out of this?”

“No way, Mister Frank, 'cept dat scuttle-hole.”

Parson Goober was trying to whisper, but his voice got away from him in a shrill squeak, and everybody heard it.

“The scuttle—the scuttle—to the roof!”

TWENTY men made a break, and the little yellow Parson with his basket stood no show in a rushing mob of white men. Niggers last—that was the rule. Somebody switched off the lights—except one in the hall. Kino and his barkeeper had already stacked their stuff at the foot of the ladder and were passing it up through the scuttle. Once in a while a slim customer slipped by, between boxes.

“Don't crowd, gentlemen,” Kino pleaded. “That door'll hold till we get out.”

Now the police were also hammering on the rear door, which got Parson Goober frustrated. From a rear view of fat old Barberg climbing the ladder, the Parson prophesied that he would get wedged in the scuttle and block all chance of escape. The negro rushed crazily in and out of all the rooms, hunting for a place to hide. In the second room Kino had abandoned a half-cut ham and some bread. Parson Goober thriftily raked these eatables into his basket, en passant. If caught, he wouldn't go hungry.

The hubbub quieted down in front—dead silence, which sounded mighty suspicious—then a terrible crash of something heavy battering at the door. The door creaked and groaned—and held sturdily. Eight white men were lined up ahead of Parson at the ladder, and he could not afford to be nabbed with that blue watch. Scurrying around like a rat, he dodged into the rear room—absolutely bare, no place to hide except for that rickety old sofa on which Walter Sessions was sleeping the sleep of the drunk. With frenzied haste Parson turned the sleeper and shoved Skip Wingo's package into Walter's inside coat pocket. “Dar now, I'm shut o' dat.”

Quickly Parson switched off the light, lost his basket, couldn't find the light, groped in the dark, snatched his basket—and stopped palsied. The front door fell, shattered, and three officers rushed in. Parson greased his running-gear and dashed for the ladder. Somebody jerked it upward; for an instant the lower end dangled, out of reach. The hall was utterly dark, the last man having turned out the light. The ladder disappeared through the scuttle, and Parson saw the stars blotted out as the lid settled noiselessly into place. Then Jud Weston, the biggest cop, grabbed Parson Goober's collar and produced illuminations.

“Quick, old nigger! Where's everybody?”

“Is you seed anybody, suh?”

“I heard 'em.” Jud had a strong arm but a weak head, and failed to comprehend this unanimous vacancy. Clutching Parson's elbow, he dragged the negro and the basket through three rooms, meeting his baffled partners—Joe Dempsey and Will Marsh. In the brilliantly lighted front room were the half-empty glasses, and tables with little wet rings showing where beer-mugs had stood. Jud examined the whirligig contraption with stupid curiosity. “What's this for?” he demanded.

“Dunno, suh; I'm at de fust o' dat.”

Together they wandered through vacant rooms; everything betrayed the hastiness of departure—a zinc tub full of broken ice, an overturned table, glasses and bottles all empty. Parson Goober tried to hang back when they entered the end room. He knew they'd find Walter Sessions and didn't want to get tangled up in any dispute concernin' of a blue watch.

“Hi, fellers!” Dempsey shouted. Will Marsh ran in and found his partner stirring the drunk. “Here's our man.”

The two cops stood Sessions on his feet—or rather held him suspended so that his boneless legs could touch the floor. “Here, stand up!” Dempsey gave Sessions a shake, and a wad of newspaper fell out of his coat. Something clinked, and Marsh picked it up—a blue-enameled watch, a diamond bar-pin and four rings.

“The Claiborne swag!” three men exclaimed. Two made a grab for it, and Sessions dropped like a wet rag.

“Hundred dollars reward in this,” observed Marsh, holding the plunder behind him. Then they conferred.

“This is the Claiborne stuff, all right, all right. Now, what are we going to do about it?”

“Put him in jail,” said Jud, which was his limit of intelligence.

“No, Jud—wait—wait,” Dempsey suggested. “Denny McGill's over yonder in the barber-shop. I'll go get him.” Dempsey elbowed his way through the crowd at the door, got down the steps and returned, clearing a path for McGill.

“Hello, hello!” Denny looked all around in his bluff, good-natured way. “What's the row, boys? Raiding again, eh?” Nonchalantly he passed from room to room, searching for Frank Ward. “Where's all the liquor—and the witnesses?”

“Nobody in here.”

“The dickens there wasn't! Twenty-five men in that front room. You boobs let 'em get away?”

“We nabbed the crook that robbed Judge Claiborne's.”

Ordinarily McGill would have been interested, but he caught sight of Parson Goober looking very dejectedly captured. “Nigger, you were in here!” he snapped.

“Yas suh, jes drapped in to pick up some scraps fer supper.”

“What became of—of—all those men?”

“Which mens, suh?”

“Those men who were in here?”

“Dem polices bust dat do' an' grab me so swift I aint seed nobody.”

“You are lying, lying—”

“Yas suh!” Parson bobbed his possum-gray head. “Jes as you say, suh—jes as you say.”

Denny was getting riled, palpably and redly riled, and the officers dreaded his caustic remarks. So Dempsey repeated: “We trapped the feller that robbed Judge Claiborne's house.”

“Who?”

“There he lies,”—nodding to Walter Sessions, who lay on the floor.

“Dempsey, you're a fool.”

“Here's the stuff to prove it—fell out of his pocket.”

Incredulously Denny McGill examined the blue watch, the diamond pin and the rings. “Did you ask Walter where he got it?” inquired he.

“Now, Cap, what's the use? We've arrested him, drunk, with two quarts in his pocket, and he couldn't tell us where he got 'em. Walter Sessions could stagger up these steps with a Zeppelin under each arm and never remember where he picked 'em up.”

McGILL walked to the rear window and stood contemplating the expanse of misty river, but not thinking about it. Frank Ward had got away and could not be discredited in Nellie's eyes. But if Nellie's brother were arrested on a serious charge, McGill might step forward as his benefactor and savior.

“Oh, Dempsey, come here. Nothing to it. You've got to put a charge of larceny and burglary against Sessions. Caught with the goods. You needn't say I advised it. Get credit for the capture yourself—dress it up—make a good newspaper story.”

Dempsey nodded. “Sure, Cap, tell the reporter how we trailed the plunder—lot of guff.”

“That's the ticket!” McGill wheeled and went striding through the hall. Nellie must come to him, beg him to intercede for her brother; and thus he would find a way.

Phil Harlow was on guard at the front, keeping out the crowd, and incidentally but distressingly keeping in Parson Goober. Parson had been ready to depart ever since he first saw those policemen coming upstairs.

Marsh had let in Billy Munn and Jack Brady at the back door; all five officers were now assisting Walter Sessions through the hall—and they needed a dray.

“Say, Dempsey,” Brady suggested, “we got no right to put Walter in jail—never caught him drunk on the public streets.”

“'Taint for bein' drunk; it's for robbin' the Claiborne house.”

“No?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he never done it.”

“Didn' he, though! He had all the plunder in his pocket.”

“Honest?”

“Sure. Here it is.”

“Well,” Brady insisted, “Walter Sessions never robbed that house, just the same.”

“How do you know?” McGill whirled and demanded.

“'Cause he couldn't, Cap; that job was pulled off between eight and ten o'clock last night—while Walter Sessions was in jail.”

“In jail?”

“Sure. I jugged him about seven o'clock. And they never turned him loose until nine o'clock this mornin'.”

McGill glared. “Brady, is that straight?”

“I was at the City Court this mornin' an' seen it.”

“Then throw him in a hack; I'll take him home myself.”

As nobody was paying particular attention, Parson Goober considered it a mighty good chance to squeeze through the crowd. Harlow stopped him. “Mr. McGill, hadn't we better hold this nigger for a witness?”

Savagely McGill turned upon the Parson. “What were you buying in here?”

“Jes pickin' up a few scraps o' grub.”

McGill snatched aside the cloth which covered Parson Goober's basket, unveiling a ham-bone, several loaves of bread and the half-gallon jug.

“What you got in this jug?”

“Boss, please suh, don't pester dat jeg; dat's my wife's jeg.”

McGill lifted the jug, felt its weight and scowled at the police. “You boobs are letting this nigger get away with half a gallon of whisky. What better evidence do you want? Hold him as a witness, and sweat him until he tells who else was here.”

“Hold on, boss; hold on. I aint nary witness. I don't never aim to witness nothin' 'bout white folks' business,”

“You'll have to tell who sold you this whisky, and who else was in here.”

The Parson's eye gleamed. “Boss, is you smelt dat jeg?” he asked.

McGill jerked out the corn-cob stopper and smelled it—smelled again; his face got redder. Then he turned up the jug and poured out a cupful of black, sticky molasses.

“Don't you see, boss, I done tol' you de troof. I was jes ramblin' todes home wid dese molasses, an' 'lowed I'd stop an' git a ham-bone fer supper.”

“Get it from who?”

“Don't know, suh; I aint seed nobody; jes a ham-bone—den you-all got me pestered wid so much scrimmagin' back an' fo'th.”

The official squad looked to Denny for guidance. “Dump Walter Sessions in a hack,” he directed, “and let this fool nigger go. And, Dempsey,” he whispered, “you needn't be so brash about giving a lot of dope to the newspapers.”

McGill turned and began elbowing his way down the stairs.