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Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison: Fifteen Years in Solitude

by Austin Bidwell · English · Gutenberg #24739 · 782,758 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Bidwell's Travels, from Wall Street to London Prison: Fifteen Years in Solitude

Author: Austin Bidwell


        
Release date: March 2, 2008 [eBook #24739]

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Afra Ullah and the Online Distributed
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BIDWELL'S TRAVELS, FROM WALL STREET TO LONDON PRISON: FIFTEEN YEARS IN SOLITUDE ***




Produced by Afra Ullah and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)









BIDWELL'S TRAVELS.

FROM

Wall Street

To London Prison


_Fifteen Years in Solitude._


  FREED A HUMAN WRECK, A WONDERFUL SURVIVAL AND A MORE
    WONDERFUL RISE IN THE WORLD.
  TO-DAY HE HAS A NATIONAL REPUTATION AS A WRITER, SPEAKER
    AND IS CONSIDERED AN AUTHORITY ON ALL SOCIAL PROBLEMS.
  HE WAS TRIED AT THE OLD BAILEY AND SENTENCED FOR LIFE.
    CHARGED WITH THE L1,000,000 FORGERY ON THE BANK
      OF ENGLAND.

  THIS STORY SHOWS THAT THE EVENTS OF HIS LIFE SURPASS THE
    IMAGINATIONS OF OUR FAMOUS NOVELISTS, ITS THRILLING
      SCENES, HAIR-BREADTH ESCAPES AND MARVELOUS ADVENTURES
        ARE NOT A RECORD OF CRIME,
          BUT ARE PROOFS OF THAT

_IN THE WORLD OF WRONGDOING SUCCESS IS FAILURE._



490 Pages. 80 Graphic Illustrations.


Copyrighted 1897 by BIDWELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, HARTFORD, CONN.


Editorial New York Herald.

_Referring to a Whole Page._

"If an American dramatist or novelist had taken for the ground work of a
play or work of fiction the story of the Bidwell family to-day related
on another page of the Herald, all European critics would have told him
that the story was too 'American,' too vast in its outlines, too high in
its colors, too merely 'big' in fact.

"The story has its lesson. The play is not a mere spectacle. The lesson
is that in the doing and undoing of wrong the Bidwell family expended
enough ability and energy to stock a good many reigning European
families for generations.

"Let the Comedie Humaine write itself and it will outwrite Balzac."


Hon. Lyman J. Gage.

Having read the Bidwell book I believe it will benefit every one to read
this marvellous history of human experience.

Aside from its dramatic interest there are great moral lessons involved
of especial value to young men and employees in positions of trust.

Therefore, I recommend this book as unique and a valuable acquisition
for home and office.


From Chas. M. Stead, Union League Club, New York.

"_Dear Sir_--I read your book with a good deal of interest, and would
like to change it for a higher-priced binding if you have one."


The Worcester Spy.

"Mr. Bidwell's book has been compared with Dumas' famous 'Monte
Christo.' The extraordinary character of its adventures, indeed, would
render it dramatic and powerful as fiction; as human truth, it is simply
overwhelming. No one can read this book unmoved. From every conceivable
standpoint, physiological, sociological, and literary, it is a marvel."


Philip W. Moen.

Mr. Moen, of Washburn & Moen, Worcester, Mass., writes: "I have read Mr.
George Bidwell's book with the deepest interest. It is a book that
deserves to be widely read, and I am very glad to recommend it."


A Niece of Oliver Wendell Holmes

writes: "_Few books have so stirred my mind_ for years as the book by
George Bidwell. Hearing of the book, prejudice immediately seized me
against it. The history given by himself, to be interesting at all must
be sensational, therefore disastrous to morals. _So avowed prejudiced
thought; and, determined to find fault, I began this remarkable
history._ IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO FIND FAULT WITH THE BOOK, WHICH IS
VALUABLE AND WONDERFULLY ABSORBING."


From Ira D. Sankey, Esq.

"MR. GEORGE BIDWELL, _Dear Sir_--I have read with great interest your
book, and believe it will do much good among young men wherever read.
Your life is a proof and your book a burning record of the truth that
'Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he also reap.' I believe in throwing
light into all the dark places of this life, that men, seeing the
dangers, they may avoid them. I wish you success."


From Hon. Robert G. Ingersoll.

"GEORGE BIDWELL, ESQ.:

_My Dear Sir_--Knowing as I do that you will tell a candid story of your
career, I believe you will do good. Crime springs mostly from a lack of
intelligence and imagination. Only the foolish can think that the
practice of vice is the road to joy. As a matter of fact, the wrong does
not pay. You have, in your remarkable book, made this fact perfectly
clear, and you will enforce this great truth on the platform. _In the
world of crime success is failure._ Good luck to you."


Rev. Dr. Edward Beecher

writes; "I recommend this book to the friends of morality."


Office of Street's Insurance Agency, Hartford, Conn.

"MR. GEORGE BIDWELL, _Dear Sir_--A clergyman consulted with me regarding
his son, who had fallen into bad associations, taken part in many small
thefts, and seemed hardened against shame or dread of exposure. I
believe the mean, dangerous boy has become a man by reading your book."
Yours very truly,

F. F. STREET, Hartford, Conn.


Hartford Daily Times.

"This autobiography is a story of thrilling interest."




CONTENTS.


  A NEW YORK HERALD EDITORIAL.


  CHAPTER I.

  Brooklyn Public Schools in the Sixties--Old. No. 13--Parents Suited
  to the Golden Age--A Curious Preparation for the Battle of
  Life--Knew that Brutus Slew Caesar--George the Third Was a
  Bad Fellow Who Got a Tea Kettle Thrown at His Head In
  Boston Harbor--My Model Home Library--An Innocent Leaves
  Home.                                                               19


  CHAPTER II.

  In a Broker's Office--A Nice Old Gentleman--Situation in Wall
  Street--An Up-to-Date Young Man--Visions of Wealth--Speculations--Wall
  Street in the Sixties--The Hon. John Morrissey,
  ex-Pugilist--His Famous Gambling House--I Try a Game of
  Faro--Midnight Banquets--I Have Entered the Primrose
  Way.                                                                24


  CHAPTER III.

  Pleasure Before Business--Result of That Method--On Financial
  Rocks--James, Otherwise "Jimmy," Irving--He Was a Model
  Chief of Detectives--Police Headquarters, 300 Mulberry Street,
  in the Early Seventies--He Takes Me for a Drive out Harlem
  Lane--A Trio of Detectives--They Make a Startling Proposition--A
  $10,000 Temptation--Mental Conflicts--I Dare Not Be Poor--C'est
  le Premier Pas Qui Coute.                                           28


  CHAPTER IV.

  History of the Famous Lord Bond Steal--"On the Office"--Three
  Sneaks Stumble on a Fortune--A $1,250,000 Tin Box--Dazed
  Crooks--What to Do with Their White Elephant--Excitement
  at Police Headquarters--Bullard et al.--A Violin Virtuoso--Superintendent
  of Police Kelso Presents a $500 Silver Punch
  Bowl to the Daughter of Boss Tweed--Paid for with Stolen
  Cash.                                                               36


  CHAPTER V.

  Police Protectors--New York Gangs--Irving & Co. Give Me $80,000
  Lord Bonds to Sell Abroad--A Midnight Farewell--Alone on
  the Sea--When Jim Fisk Owned Our Judges--Chief Irving
  Plans a Famous Bank Robbery--His Three Burglar Confederates.        48


  CHAPTER VI.

  The Bank Looted--Irving Notified by Bank Officials--His Feigned
  Surprise--Hunts the Burglars, but Divides the Plunder at His
  Own House--Count Shinburne and His Palace on the Rhine--Twenty
  Years Later.                                                        58


  CHAPTER VII.

  I Arrive in Paris--Field of Waterloo--Meet the Antwerp Chief of
  Police--He Is on Trail--A Dutch Van Tromp and the Countess
  Winzerode--His Dream of Bliss and Tragic Death--My Negotiations
  in Frankfurt-on-the-Main.                                           65


  CHAPTER VIII.

  Marpurgo & Weisweller, Bankers--Francoise Blanc, the Gambler
  King--His Casinos at Monte Carlo, Homburg and Wiesbaden--I
  Meet Van Tromp's Countess--Outlived Her Beauty--Now a
  Hanger-on at the Rouge et Noir Tables--Takes My Advice--Marries
  a Rich Burgher--Becomes a Good Stepmother--Her
  Pious End and Epitaph.                                              73


  CHAPTER IX.

  I Sell the $80,000 Bonds--Reach London Safely--Drifting--Success
  in Crime a Failure--A Desolate Woman--Beautiful Barmaid
  Show--Westminster Abbey--Good Resolutions--Sail Home--Irving
  at the Wharf--Meet at Taylor's Hotel--The Total: "I
  Have Another Job for You"--A Fool's Game.                           84


  CHAPTER X.

  Edwin James, Q.C., and a Possible Lord Chancellor of England--His
  Extravagance--On the Border Land of Crime--He Oversteps--Disbarred--Comes
  to New York--Richard O'Gorman's
  Great Heart--The Brea Will Case--A Dark Plot--$20,000 out of
  Wall Street--Jay Cooke & Co. Narrowly Escape Loss of $240,000--Chief
  Irving in the Plot--Detective George Elder Not in Our
  Ring--Accidentally He Appears and Thwarts Our Plans.                94


  CHAPTER XI.

  Eastward Ho!--The James and Brea Exit--Ezra, the Shrewd Lawyer--Three
  Unhappy Daughters--He Marries One--Detects
  Forged Will--Flight of Brea to Montana--A Sunrise Surprise
  at Butte City--James Returns to London--Fills a Pauper's
  Grave Instead of a Lord Chancellor's.                              114


  CHAPTER XII.

  Bordeaux, Marseilles and Lyons "Donate" $50,000--A Bad Quarter
  of an Hour--Eggs and Peasant Women--"Sweets to the Sweet"--A
  Mysterious Stranger Disappears Among the Tombs.                    123


  CHAPTER XIII.

  A Starry Talk--Contrast Between Mac's Philosophy and His Errand--A
  Financial Trip Through Germany--From Leipsic Fair
  to London--Return Loaded with Thalers.                             132


  CHAPTER XIV.

  A Drive to Hampton Court--Send $10,000 Police Tribute to New
  York--Discussing the Bank of England in the Throne Room
  at Windsor Castle--Believe It to Be a Fossil Institution--Greene,
  the Tailor--Introduces Me to Bank--No References
  Required--Joy That Ends in Sorrow.                                 142


  CHAPTER XV.

  Voyage to Rio Janeiro--The Lady of the Lucitania--A Swedish
  Colonel's Party of English Engineers--A Bibulous Chaplain--Modern
  Buccaneers--Scenes at Bordeaux--Crossing the Line--Father
  Neptune's Visit--Fun at Sea--Arrival in Rio--Maua &
  Co.--Our Plans.                                                    154


  CHAPTER XVI.

  Fifty Thousand Dollars on Bogus Letters of Credit--Visit to a
  Coffee Plantation--Slaves Dining--Dangerous Errors in Letters
  of Credit--A Nervous Day--An Eagle-Eyed Hebrew--"Show
  Me Your Letter of Credit"--Mac in a Corner--A Bold Coup--Strategy--Can
  We Get Out of Brazil?                                              160


  CHAPTER XVII.

  Brazilian Law--Visit Police Headquarters--A Douceur to the Chief--In
  a Tight Spot--A "Doctored" Passport--A Detective on
  Trail. Who Ingratiates Himself into Mac's Confidence--Manoeuvres--The
  Detective on a "Wild Goose Chase"--Safely on
  Board--A Distinguished Party in a Rowboat--A Stern Chase--Off
  at Last.                                                           173


  CHAPTER XVIII.

  Rio to Buenos Ayres--Return and Meet Mac in Paris--Determine
  to Abandon a Dangerous Business--Vienna--Watching the
  Game--Must Have More Money--Good Resolutions Vanish--Return
  to London--Determine to Assault the Bank of England--Deposit
  $67,000.                                                           186


  CHAPTER XIX.

  Bank of England Requires No References--Letter from Paris--A
  Gilded American Young Man--Duped into Marriage with a
  Parisienne Moendaine--A Ghost at Monte Carlo--In a Greenwood
  Mausoleum--Earthly Happiness and the World to
  Come.                                                              193


  CHAPTER XX.

  A Council of War--Description of Bills of Exchange--Frederick
  Albert Warren, the Great American Railway Contractor--The
  Great Bank Proves Fallible--Discounts Bogus Bills of Exchange.     200


  CHAPTER XXI.

  Draw Fabulous Sums--Bags of Sovereigns by the Cab Load--In a
  French Railway Wreck--Baron Alfonse de Rothschild, Head
  of the Paris House--A Famous L6,000 Draft.                         206


  CHAPTER XXII.

  Last Call at the Bank of England--Noyes Arrives in London--An
  Artful Plot--Introduce Noyes--Plan Now Complete--Our Wise
  Forefathers--No Change in a Century--Our Paper Is Discounted--Prepare
  for Flight--Thou Shalt Not.                                        214


  CHAPTER XXIII.

  Fifty Thousand Dollars a Day--The Golden Shower Continues to
  Fall--Operations Shrouded in Midnight Darkness--No Possibility
  of Discovery--Finish and Begin Again--Amazing Oversight--Pitcher
  Goes Once Too Often--Noyes Arrested--Unparalleled
  Excitement on the Stock Exchange.                                  224


  CHAPTER XXIV.

  Consternation--A Mob of Bankers--The Financial World Shaken--Noyes
  Taken to Newgate--Mac Cables Irving--His Flight to
  France--Sails from Havre on Board Thuringia--Arrested at
  Quarantine--The Pinkertons on Trail.                               236


  CHAPTER XXV.

  Hunted Through Ireland--$2,500 Reward for My Capture--Detectives
  "Spot" Me at the Cork Railway Station--Obliged to
  Abandon Taking Passage by the Ill-Fated Atlantic--A Game
  of "Hare and Hounds"--Eluding a Detective "Trap"--English
  Misrule in Ireland--Am Taken for a Priest--A Typographical
  Thunderbolt at Lismore--An Early Morning Walk--A Ride on
  an Irish Jaunting Car--"On the Road to Clonmel"--Shelter in
  a "Shebeen"--How Thirsty Souls Get the "Craythur" In Ireland--A
  Good Old Irish Lady--Pursuit and Refuge in a Ruined
  Cottage at Cahir.                                                  248


  CHAPTER XXVI.

  An Unceremonious Call--"I am a Fenian Leader"--A "Story" Told
  in the Dark--Maloy Helps My Escape on an Irish Jaunting
  Car--Eggs--A Policeman Anxious to Obtain the Five Hundred
  Pounds Reward--Dublin Again--A Jewess' Blessing--I Turn
  Russian, and Later Become a Frenchman--Belfast Detectives--Escape
  into Scotland--The Other Side of the Story--A Bow
  Street Detective's Adventures While Hunting Me Through Ireland
  --Cross-Questioning--My Jaunting Car Driver--"A Cold
  Water Cure"--Hot on the Trail--Not in the Fort--A Fruitless
  Hunt--Many Innocents Arrested--Maloy Becomes a "Know-Nothing."     261


  CHAPTER XXVII.

  A Marriage at the American Embassy in Paris--Anxious Moments
  at Versailles--Off for Spain--Crossing the Pyrenees--Gunshots--Train
  off the Track--Captured by Carlist Bandits--Released--Through
  the Pass on Ox Carts--A Mountain Blizzard--Camp
  in a Snowstorm--Mutiny--A Morning Dream.                           275


  CHAPTER XXVIII.

  A Carlist Officer--A Picturesque Caravan--Arrival at Burgos--Startling
  Telegrams--Revolution at Madrid--The Railway
  Seized--My Party in a Trap--Madrid Cathedral and a Bull
  Fight--A Special Train Proves a Slow Train--No News Good
  News.                                                              292


  CHAPTER XXIX.

  Arrival in Santander--Gloomy Forebodings--Sail for Cuba--Watch
  the Pyrenees Sink in the Sea--Two Sisters of Charity, Innocents
  on a Voyage--Circus at St. Thomas--Sunset Gun in Havana--Thirty
  Seconds Change My Destiny.                                         301


  CHAPTER XXX.

  Slavery in Cuba--Life in Havana--The Million-Pound Forgery
  Discovered--My Opinion Asked--Trip to the Isle of Pines--The
  Cuban Rebels--A Battle Field--A Slave Cook--The Missionary
  and the Cannibal--Going into the Interior.                         312

  CHAPTER XXXI.

  On the Caribbean--A Motley Cargo--Turning Turtles and Shark
  Fishing--A Dinner Party in Havana Proves a Surprise Party--Capt.
  John Curtin of the Pinkertons Appears on the Scene--Consternation
  Among the Diners--Offer the Captain $50,000 for
  Ten Minutes' Start--No--I Shoot Him--Struggle and Capture--In
  the Arsenal.                                                       327


  CHAPTER XXXII.

  Friendly Spanish Officials--Plots to Escape--Leap for Liberty--Escape
  out of Havana--Travel the Beach Nights--Refuge in
  the Jungle Days--Construct a Raft--Food and Water Gone,
  but Pluck at the Fore--I Will Join the Rebels And Win Military
  Laurels--Man Proposes, but----                                     338


  CHAPTER XXXIII.

  Creeping Across a Bridge--Sentries Discover Me--They Challenge:
  "Quien Va?"--They Fire--Flight and Escape on the Raft--A
  Tropical Night Swim--Sharks Everywhere--Knife Between My
  Teeth--Regain the Shore--Nearing the Rebel Camp--The Black
  Soldiers Surprise and Capture Me--I Strike the Captain--He
  Dashes at Me with a Bayonet--Stopped by a Woman--Desperation.      355


  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  Back in Havana--Curtin's Story--Extradited--Spain Delivers Me
  to England--Pinkertons Escort Me on Board Steamer--Arrival
  at Plymouth--Newgate at Last--When Time is Old and
  Hath Forgotten Himself.                                            372

  CHAPTER XXXV.

  Life in Newgate--Legal Sharks--A Pattern Solicitor--A Lame Defense
  --Before Lord Mayor Waterlow--Trial at the Old Bailey--Thronging
  Crowds--Days of Mental Torture--Jury Retires--Suspense--Guilty.    383


  CHAPTER XXXVI.

  A Modern Jeffreys--Penal Servitude for Life--End of the Primrose
  Way--A Resolve--Will Fortune Ever Smile Again?--Newgate to
  Chatham Prison--A Cocky Little Major--You Were Sent Here
  to Work--In the Mud--Night and Silence.                            387


  CHAPTER XXXVII.

  Events of the First Day--Hopeless Outlook--Lack of Mental and
  Physical Food--A Shakespeare Won and Hope Dawns--In the
  Infirmary--Effects of Prolonged Imprisonment.                      401


  CHAPTER XXXVIII.

  Prison Management--Warders Under Military Discipline--Their
  Long Hours and Small Pay--Their Character and Antecedents--English
  Prison System Not Reformatory--Turns Out Murderers--Prison
  Pets--Rats, Mice and Beetles.                                      404


  CHAPTER XXXIX.

  A Genius--Strange Story of Arthur Heep--Unwise Parents--Driven
  from Home--Temptation and Fall--In a Lunatic Asylum--Escapes
  Naked in a Storm--Clothes Secured from a Scarecrow--Rearrested--Serves
  Five Years--To America and Return--Again
  Behind the Bars.                                                   417


  CHAPTER XL.

  English Prisons Schools for Crime--Two Prison Aid Societies--United
  States Laws Evaded--Snug Berths for Reverend Barnacles--Contributions
  Go for Salaries--No Benefit to ex-Prisoners--How
  Discharged Prisoners Are Hustled to the United
  States.                                                            426


  CHAPTER XLI.

  Rev. Mr. Whiteley--How to Stop Influx of Foreign Criminals--Foster
  an Example--Whiteley, Secretary of Aid Society, Sends
  Foster to Sea--His Arrival in Chicago--Meets an Old Prison
  Chum--Turns Detective--Chicago Justices--Foster's Story--Human
  Tigers--A Plot and $20,000--A Letter and Diamond Pin--In
  the Toils Again.                                                   430


  CHAPTER XLII.

  A Gettysburg Veteran--In the Wethersfield, Ct., State Prison--Makes
  and Conceals a Set of Burglar's Tools--Liberated--Returns
  and Burglarizes the Prison--Boat Load of Plunder--Captured--Sixteen
  Years More in Prison--Then Goes to England--Gets
  Twenty Years--Joins Me at Chatham.                                 436


  CHAPTER XLIII.

  The Fenians at Chatham--Dr. Gallagher--McCarty, O'Brien and
  Others--We Become Friends--Excavating the Chatham Ship
  Basin--Starvation and Despair--Self-Mutilation of an Arm or
  Leg to Reach the Hospital--Release and Death of McCarty--Gallagher
  Breaks Down--Speedy Release or Death for Him.                      443


  CHAPTER XLIV.

  Fenian Prisoners in English Prisons--McCarthy, O'Brien--A Plan
  Miscarried--In the Tolls--Severe Punishments--Curtin, Daly,
  Egan--Poor Dr. Gallagher.                                          447


  CHAPTER XLV.

  A Dictionary and Life of the Prophet Jeremiah vs. a Shakespeare--Prison
  Hospital Proves a Paradise--Nature's Compensations--Reality
  Not So Terrible as Imagined--Human Nature Unchangeable.            453


  CHAPTER XLVI.

  Public Opinion Within Says the Same as Outside--A Sensible Fellow--Pluck
  Wins--Roses Scarce, Thorns Plenty--Woe to Mutineers
  for "More Bread"--Sentiment Banished--Resistance
  Crushed--English Judges Are Autocrats--No Appeal.                  459


  CHAPTER XLVII.

  Hard Lines--A Boaster--A Veneered Flunkey--Billy Treacle's Aunt
  Dies Again--Frederic Barton and His Vain Petitions--I Give
  Him a Pointer--His Inherited Fortune Fake--Surreptitious Mail
  Route--Warders as Letter Carriers.                                 463


  CHAPTER XLVIII.

  Sixteen-Thousand-Acre Tea Plantation in India and Sixty Thousand
  Pounds Imaginary Inheritance--Barton Becomes a Great
  Man--The Plot Thickens--Letters from London--Smith Discharged--Petition
  for Barton--Smith Presents It at Home Office--Home
  Secretary Swallows the Bait--Barton's Triumphant
  Release--His Imaginary Fortune Does Not Materialize.               466


  CHAPTER XLIX.

  Tantalizing the Home Secretary--Refused a Letter Sheet--Petition
  the Home Office for One--Sarcasm About Barton's Release on
  My Sub-Rosa Petition--Good Conduct Fails--Feigned Wealth
  Wins Freedom for Barton--Apropos Quotation from Goethe--Sir
  Vernon Harcourt and His Opinion--I Tread Dangerous
  Ground.                                                            471


  CHAPTER L.

  Niblo Clark--The Mysterious Three R's--His Characteristic Verses--My
  Tenth Anniversary at Chatham--All Efforts Fail and
  Fifteen Years Gone Forever--Despairing When Good News
  Comes--My Sister in England--George Freed--Hope Returns
  and Abides--George Gets James G. Blaine, J. Russell and
  Others to Intercede--Fresh Failures--Home Secretary Matthews
  Won't--George and My Sister Will--Which Will Wear
  the Other Out--George and Sister Win--Night and Gloom in
  My Cell--These Walls Have Frowned on Me for Twenty Years--Warder's
  Tramps on Stone Corridor Arouse Me--Door Opens--"You
  Are Free"--First Sight of Stars in Twenty Years--I
  Shout, 'Twas Like a Prayer: "God Is Good."                         478


     NOTE TO THE PUBLIC

     The Hon. Lyman J. Gage, Dr. Funk and hundreds of others have said
     that my book should be put at a price which would place it within
     the reach of every young man, etc.

     Hitherto, it has been sold by subscription at $3.50, $5 and $10 per
     copy--the five editions printed having been easily sold at those
     prices.

     Notwithstanding the thousands of friends their circulation has
     made, I did not care to have my family name go any further in this
     connection than financial needs required in working for the release
     of the men still undergoing life sentences in English prisons.

     At last, however, certain influence causes me to let it go in the
     revised and improved form here presented, and may it prove as
     valuable and engrossing to the general public as it has to 20,000
     subscribers to former editions. GEORGE BIDWELL.




CHAPTER I.

HAD THERE BEEN WISDOM THERE?


We lived in South Brooklyn, near to old No. 13, the Degraw Street Public
School. To that I was sent, and there got all the education I was ever
fated to have at any school, except the school of life and experience.

I attended for some years, and even now I cannot recall without a smile
the absurd incompetency of every one connected with the institution and
their utter ignorance of the art of imparting knowledge to children.

At home I had picked up that grand art of reading, and went to school to
learn the other two R's, with any trifle that I might come across
floating around promiscuously.

I certainly hope our much-lauded public schools are conducted on better
lines now than then; if not, they are frauds from the foundation. The
instruction in No. 13 was so lax and radically bad that the whole
governing body and the principal ought to have been sent to the
penitentiary on the charge of false pretense for drawing their salaries
and giving nothing in return. And yet I remember when examination day
came, instead of the committee investigating the progress of the pupils,
it usually turned into a mere hallelujah chorus upon our "grand public
school system."

Here is a remarkable fact: I seldom missed a promotion and passed from
grade to grade until within two years I found myself in Junior "A," the
next to the highest class in the school, just as ignorant as my
classmates, and that is saying much.

It was all very pitiful. My blood boils even now when I think of the
traitors chosen and paid to see me fully equipped and armed to begin the
battle of life who left me with phantom weapons which would shiver into
fragments at the first shock of conflict.

I left Junior A of old No. 13, with its algebra, logic, philosophy
(heaven save the word!) and advanced grammar, unable to write a
grammatical sentence. I had been taught spelling out of an expositor--a
sort of pocket dictionary containing about fifteen hundred words. Most
of these, with their definitions, parrotlike, I had learned to spell,
but never once in all my school experience had I been taught the
derivation of a single word. Indeed, I took it for granted that in the
good old days Adam had invented the words much as he named the animals,
and, of course, supposed that he spoke good English. The knowledge of
history I gained at No. 13 was strictly limited and exceedingly
primitive. I knew the Jews in the old days were a bad lot. That Brutus
had slain Caesar. That the Mayflower had landed our fathers on Plymouth
Rock. That wicked George III. was a tyrant, and that the boys in Boston
had thrown a tea-kettle at his head. I knew all about our George and the
cherry tree, and there my historical knowledge ended.

So here I was launched out in the world a model scholar! Stamped as
proficient in grammar, history, logic, philosophy and arithmetic, but
yet in useful knowledge a barbarian, unable to spell or even write a
grammatical letter and unversed in the ways of the world--a world, too,
where I would be cast entirely upon my own resources.

My home life was happy. My father had lost his grip on the world, but
his faith in the Unseen remained. My mother, caring little for this
life, lived in and for the spiritual. To her heaven was a place as much
as the country village where she was born. She was never tired of
talking to us children about its golden streets and the rest there after
the toils and pains of life. But, boylike, we discounted all she said,
and felt we wanted some of this world before we knocked at the gates of
the next.

We loved our mother, but her soul was too gentle to keep in restraint
hot, fiery youths like my brothers and myself. On the whole we were good
boys, and I suppose caused her no more pain than the average youngsters.
Perhaps the keynote of her character can best be found in the following
incident, if that which was of daily occurrence could be called an
incident:

Every night of my life in those days she would come to my bed to pray
over me, ever saying, as she kissed me or clasped my hand: "My son,
remember if you were to pass your whole life here in poverty and
hardship it would not much matter so long as you attain to the Heavenly
Rest." This teaching would have been well had she only taught me some
worldly wisdom with it, but that all-essential knowledge was kept from
me, I being left to learn the ways of man in that terrible school of
experience. The consequence being that when after some months I was
launched out in life I was a ripe and apt victim to be caught in the
world's huge snare. In fact, had my parents designed me to become a
traveler in the Primrose Way they could not have educated me to better
purpose.

Save when in the school I had never been permitted to associate with
other boys, but was kept in the house, and up to my sixteenth year
hardly dreamed there was evil in the world. I was told much about the
"wicked," but thought that meant those who smoked tobacco or drank
whisky. I hardly thought any women came under that category, but if any,
then it must mean those who came around selling apples and oranges. The
reader will see that when once away from the shelter of home, in
threading the world's devious ways, I would be crossing the roaring
torrent "on the perilous footing of a spear," all but certain to fall
into the flood beneath.

During my last year at school and for a long time after leaving it, my
father and mother were never tired of talking about my good education.
Possibly they were not very good judges, but I am confident that they,
after all, did not realize the importance of a boy being well equipped
in that regard. Their thoughts and minds were so bent on the other
world, and things unseen bulked so hugely on their mental vision, that
there was small space left for things of this earth. They, good, simple
souls, were made for and ought to have lived in the Golden Age, when all
men were brave and all women true, where neighborly eyes reflected the
love and faith within; but in our utilitarian days they were sadly out
of place, and little wonder if they had lost their way in this world.

In their intense longing for the life beyond the grave, their passionate
desire to walk the streets of gold, they, by their actions, seemed to
forget that we were on this earth, and that we were here with many sharp
reminders of the fact.

The same guilelessness was manifested in their choice of our home
reading. The books I was allowed access to in the house were "The Life
of King David," "The History of Jerusalem," "Baxter's Saints' Rest,"
"The Immortal Dreamer's Pilgrim" and Fox's "Book of Martyrs." His first
martyr is Stephen, and such was my gross ignorance of history that I
always supposed Stephen had been martyred by the Church of Rome. Here
was mental food for a boy who had his own way to make in the world.

[Illustration: A HOME CHRISTMAS DINNER VS. IN A CELL. "WHERE IS OUR
WANDERING BOY TO-NIGHT?"]

Craving other mental food than "The Life of David," I used to club
pennies with a chum and buy that delectable sheet, "Ned Buntline's Own,"
then in fear and trembling would creep to an upper room and read "The
Haunted House" or "The Ghost of Castle Ivy" until my hair stood on end
in a sort of ecstatic horror; or the stirring adventures of "Jack the
Rover" or "Pirate Chief" until my brain took fire and a mighty impulse
stirred every fibre impelling me to follow in their footsteps.

I had remained idly at home for some six months after my release from
school, when one night my father returned from New York and said: "My
son, I have found a situation for you." That was delightful news, and
when I went to bed that night I was too excited to sleep.

The future was full of color, red and purple, of course. Happily for me
the future in all its black misery was hidden behind those gilded
clouds.

So now at sixteen I was about to sail out of harbor, and how equipped!

Absolutely without education, void of worldly wisdom, and in my boyish
brain dividing the world into two sections. In one was King David
slaying the Phillistines or dancing before the Ark. In the other was
Jack the Rover and the Pirate Chief. How easy to guess the rest! Yet I
was not a bad boy--far from it. I only needed wise guidance and good
companionship, and as the ignorance and crudity of my character dropped
off, the innate virtue--mine by lawful heritage--would have been
developed. But pitchforked into the wild whirl of Wall street and its
fast set of gilded youth, the gates of the Primrose Way to destruction
were held wide open to my eager feet.




CHAPTER II.

"'TWAS EVER THUS." OF COURSE IT WAS.


The situation my father had obtained for me was with a sugar broker by
the name of Waterbury. He was a partner in a large refinery, his office
being in South Water street. He was a nice, conservative old man, and
let things run on easily. His chief clerk, Mr. Ambler, was every inch a
gentleman, who, quickly perceiving what an ignoramus I was, out of the
goodness of his heart resolved to teach me something.

There were two sharp young men in our office. They liked me well enough,
but used to guy me unmercifully for my simplicity and clumsiness. One of
them, Harry by name, was something of a scapegrace, and soon acquired
quite a power over me. I stood in much fear of his ridicule, and
frequently did things for which my conscience reproached me, rather than
stand the fire of his raillery. The greatest harm he did me was in
firing my imagination with stories of Wall street, of the fortunes that
were and could be made in the gold room or on 'Change. He made tolerably
clear the modus operandi of speculators, and I secretly resolved that
some day I, too, would try my fortune.

My friend Mr. Ambler's health was bad, and frequent attacks of illness
caused him to be away from the office for weeks at a time, and that
meant much loss to me. When I had been there about a year, he resigned
his position and went as manager for a factory in New Haven. But before
leaving he interested himself so far in my welfare as to secure me a
position with a firm of brokers in New street, at a salary of $10 a
week. My employers were good fellows, lovers of pleasure and men of the
world, not scrupling to talk freely with me of their various adventures
out of business hours. I had lost much of my awkwardness and gauche
manners, and under the $10 a week arrangement began to dress fairly
well. My employers did a brokerage business and speculated as well on
their own account. My duties were decidedly light and pleasant, and
brought me into contact with some of the sharpest as well as the most
famous men in the street. Among them was a brilliant young man of my own
age, who took a great fancy to me, and frequently proposed that we
should start for ourselves. Being doubtful of my powers, I shrank from
risking my scanty funds in any speculative venture. Much to my mother's
concern, I had begun attending the theatre, and one night, on my friend
Ed Weed's invitation, I went with him to Niblo's. After the performance
we went to supper at Delmonico's, and I was perfectly fascinated by the
company and surroundings, going home long past midnight a different man
than I had last left it.

The next day Ed came to the office and invited me to lunch, where, after
making some disparaging remarks about the country cut of my garments, he
offered to introduce me to his tailor, who was never in a hurry for his
money. After business that day we walked uptown together, and, prompted
by Ed, I ordered $150 worth of garments, then went to his outfitter and
ordered nearly an equal amount in shirts, ties, gloves, etc.

One amusing result was that when, a few days later, I walked down to our
office, comme il faut in garb, my employers raised my salary to $30 a
week, but this left me poorer than when I had husbanded my poor little
$10. Soon after, piloted by Ed, I ventured $50 on a margin in gold.
Unluckily, I won, invested again and again, and within fourteen days was
$284 ahead. I paid my tailor and outfitter's bill, bought a $100 watch
on credit, and gave a wine supper on borrowed money. Soon after this I
went to board at the old St. Nicholas, the then fashionable hotel. From
that time I began to drift more and more away from home influences.

Soon after the wine supper episode I threw up my position, and Ed and I
started on our own account under the name of E. Weed & Co. My partner's
parents were wealthy, and his father had been well known in the street,
which fact gave us standing.

The years I speak of were fortunate ones for Wall street, stocks of
every kind on the boom, the general wealth of the country massing up by
leaps and bounds, and every kind of speculative enterprise being
launched. Our firm history was the usual one of broker firms in that
tumultuous arena--the Wall street of those days--commissions in plenty,
a large income, but one's bank account never growing, for what was made
by day in the wild excitement of shifting values was thrown away amid
wilder scenes at night. Those, too, were, indeed, the flush times for
the professional gambler; for men were not content unless they burned
the candle at both ends. Day faro banks were open everywhere around the
Exchange, and enormous sums were nightly staked in the uptown games.
These were everywhere--all protected, and the proprietors invested their
money for rent, fixtures, etc., with as much confidence, and kept their
doors open as freely, as if embarked in a legitimate speculation.
Hundreds who spent the business hours of the day in the mad excitement
of the Exchange flocked around the green cloth at night, devoting the
same intensity of thought and brain to the turning of a card which
earlier in the day they had given to the market reports of the world.
Small wonder that death cut such wide swaths in the army of brokers.
Statistics show that it was more fatal to belong to that army than to an
army in the field.

Ed loved to have me with him, and I used to accompany him to a game,
then quite famous, run by John Morrissey, who later became a member of
Congress. At this time I never ventured a single bet, and did not like
to visit the place. But Ed would beg me to go, and always promised
faithfully not to remain more than twenty minutes. Of course, his twenty
minutes would lengthen into hours. Frequently I would take a chair into
a corner and go to sleep until he left the game, that being almost any
hour between midnight and morning. As usual, in such places, an elegant
supper was served free at midnight. The proprietor was always rather
attentive to me, and, to give him the credit due, seemed anxious that I
should not play. At supper he always reserved the chair next to himself
for me. One night while standing beside the roulette wheel, no one was
playing, and the dealer was idly whirling the ball, a sudden impulse
seized me, and the ball then rolling, I pulled a $20 bill from my pocket
and threw it down on the red remarking, "I'll lose that to pay for my
suppers." Unhappily I won, and, laughing, turned to the dealer and said:
"Here, give me my money. I am done," and a moment later went out with my
friend, fully determined never more to gamble. But, being in there the
next night, I, of course, ventured again. Again I was so unfortunate as
to win, and within a short time staked and lost or won nightly. But
something worse than gambling was ahead of me, just at the very door.




CHAPTER III.

A LICENSED PIRATE.


We had latterly somewhat neglected business--our real business being at
night, when we made the pursuit of pleasure hard work. Soon the finances
of our firm not only ran low, but were on three several occasions
exhausted, so that we not only had recourse to borrowing, but were
barely saved from bankruptcy by liberal donations from Ed's parents. His
father was a fine, jolly old gentleman, and took it quite a matter of
course that it was his duty to help us off the rocks when we ran on
them. My partner took everything easy, but I, having no indulgent parent
behind me ever ready to draw a check, began to be uneasy over the
financial situation. Strangely enough, however, it never occurred to me
to cut down my personal expenses, and I continued living at the same
extravagant rate as when money was plenty--dining and wining and being
dined and wined. Just here an important character, one destined to have
an influence for evil on my future life, came upon the scene, and I will
halt for a moment in my narrative to give some account of him.

This man was James Irving, popularly known as Jimmy Irving, chief of the
New York Detective Force, and a bad-hearted, worthless scamp he was. I
was with several friends in the Fifth Avenue Hotel one cold January
night when he came in, and one of our party, knowing him, introduced us.
He was a man of medium height, rather heavy set, blond mustache,
pleasant eyes, but with a weak mouth and chin, and a flushed face,
telling a tale of dissipation. It was when Boss Tweed ruled supreme in
New York and the whole administration was honeycombed with corruption.
Except under similar political conditions could such a man attain to so
responsible an office in a great city as that of chief of the detective
force--a position which at that time invested him with all but
autocratic power. An old rounder and barroom loafer, without one
attribute of true manliness and not possessed of any quality which would
point him out as a fit man for the place. Nevertheless, when the
position became vacant his political pull caused his selection. From
being a mere detective on the staff he became chief. And truly this
meant something in those days. The great civil war had but lately ended,
and the country was still reeling from the mighty conflict. The flush
times, resultant from the enormous money issue of the Government, kept
everything booming. The foundations of society were shaken and vice no
longer hid itself in the dark caves and dens of the great city. The
Tenderloin, with its multifarious and widereaching influence for evil,
was then created, and the police of the city reaped a royal revenue from
its thousand dens of vice for their protection. To be captain of the
Tenderloin precinct meant an extra weekly income of $1,000 at least. He
had the lion's share; about an equal amount went to Headquarters, to be
divided between the Chief of Police and the gang, Irving being one of
the half dozen who had pull enough to get in the ring. The Tenderloin
lieutenant, roundsman and sergeant came in for about $100, $50 and $25 a
week, while the common patrolman got what blackmail he could on his own
account from the unhappy women of the street. These were considered
lawful game, and woe betide the poor unfortunate who refused to pay the
tax. Too well she found it meant a violent arrest, accompanied with
brutal treatment, a night in a filthy cell, and then to be dragged
before the magistrate, who was some ward heeler, hand in glove with the
police. The form of a trial and a speedy "six months on the island" from
the lips of the judge followed.

From Spring street to Tenth, Broadway was full of night
games--faro--each and all paying large sums for protection. This money,
however, did not all go to Police Headquarters, there being a host of
parasites aside from the police. The shoulder-hitter politicians, each
with his pull, and each having a claim to his percentage. Most of the
Broadway games were known as square games, but then there was the host
of skin games in the Bowery, Chatham square, Houston, Prince and other
streets. The Eighth Ward and all Broadway were considered the lawful
happy hunting grounds for Headquarters detectives, and this by long
prescription. Outside of that they had no claim save only to a
percentage from the Tenderloin. But the protection money paid by the
swindling games around Chatham square, Bayard street, and the whole
length of the Bowery, by a sort of sacred prescription, belonged to the
captains of those precincts, save only that part absorbed by the
politicians of the district who had a pull. These usually were the
Aldermen and Councilmen with their henchmen.

[Illustration: "PULLING OUT A $20 BILL, I THREW IT DOWN."--Page 27.]

But to return to my friend, Capt. Jim Irving, who, before our party
separated, had opened three bottles of wine. Before leaving I had asked
him to call on me at the St. Nicholas. The next day he came and invited
me to take a drive with him to Fordham the following Sunday. On Sunday
he appeared behind a fast trotting horse, and in every respect an
elegant turnout. During our drive he casually remarked that he had paid
a thousand dollars for the rig, and as his pay was some two thousand
dollars per annum I easily figured that his rig and diamond pin had cost
him about a year's salary. It was a lovely morning, not cold, but
bracing, just the day for a ride. We started for Fordham, but changed
our minds and drove to the High Bridge, through Harlem lane, and well
out into Westchester County. Returning, we stopped at O'Brien's Hotel
for dinner. We fared sumptuously the whole day through, our dinner being
particularly fine, my companion paying for everything, and really it was
all highly enjoyable. He had a vast fund of anecdote, and many strange
stories of city life and adventure, which naturally would be expected
from one in his position. Many of those we passed or met during the day
were personally known to him, and some, both women as well as men, who
were then clothed in purple and fine linen, had histories, and many had
at some period of their lives looked on life from the seamy side, having
passed through strange vicissitudes.

Soon after dark we returned to my hotel, and after dinner, lighting our
cigars, we started for Police Headquarters. There he attended to some
routine business, having introduced me to two of his chief detectives.
Many who read this will recognize the men, but in this narrative they
will be known as Stanley and White. I will not further describe them
now; as they will appear in the story from time to time, the reader will
be able to judge what manner of men they were.

For the next eight weeks my life went on much the same as usual. In our
business we made some money, but by one unfortunate investment lost our
entire capital, and what proved worse for me, my partner's health began
to fail. Dissipation, late and heavy dinners and irregular hours began
to break a not over-strong constitution; consequently one Saturday he
abruptly announced his intention of withdrawing from the partnership to
take a trip to Europe. There was nothing to divide save the furniture in
our office, which he presented to me. The following Wednesday he sailed
with two members of his family. I saw him off, bidding him what proved
to be a last farewell. I left the wharf feeling very lonely and
miserable. It may be well to remark here that he died a year later in
Italy, one more victim of a fast life, while I was spared, but took no
warning from his fate. In truth, I was in the Primrose Way, which is
ever found a most tormenting and unhappy thoroughfare.

How I grieved all through the twenty years of captivity that I had not
had the moral courage to start afresh upon a basis of truth, sobriety
and honorable endeavor.

Instead of cutting down my expenses, I rather became more extravagant,
fearing my companions would suspect I was pressed for money. How much
more manly had I called them together and told them we must part
company.

Meeting Irving from time to time, he was most flattering in his
attentions, while I was young enough and silly enough to be pleased with
his notice. One evening about this time I met him while coming out of
Wallack's Theatre. Shaking hands warmly, he invited me to supper at what
was then known as upper Delmonico's. After supper, walking to the St.
Denis Hotel at Broadway and 11th street, we found Detectives Stanley and
White. Here wine was ordered, and long after midnight we parted, they
first having exacted a promise to dine with them the following night at
Delmonico's, at the same time stating that they wished to make me a
business proposition.

The next evening White came in and said we would dine at a restaurant at
Sixth avenue and 31st street, instead of at Delmonico's; then he left
me, upon my promise to be on hand.

At eleven I arrived, and entering the restaurant was at once recognized
by a waiter, evidently on the lookout, and ushered into a private room
upstairs. Only White had arrived, but soon Irving and Stanley came, and
supper was ordered. With such gentry as these wine is always in order.
Then they became confidential, and the conversation turned to the
subject of making money. Very skillfully they extracted the confession
that I had none. When excited by the talk and the wine I cried out, "By
heaven, I want money!" Stanley grasped my hand and said: "Of course you
do; a man's a fool without it." Irving interjected: "Are you game to do
us a favor and make ten thousand for yourself?" "But how?" I gasped. "Go
to Europe and negotiate some stolen bonds we have, will you?"

For $10,000 to become accessory to a crime!

It was an appalling proposition, and I shrank from it with an aversion I
could not conceal any more than he and his confederates could conceal
their chagrin over the way I took it, and over the fact that their
secret had been imparted to another. More wine was ordered, and before
we parted I had promised not only secrecy, but, worse still, I had also
promised to consider the proposition and give my answer the following
night.

As my evil genus would have it, that very morning I had a visit in my
office from the agent of my landlord, requesting arrears of rent, and
from a tradesman whom I was owing, demanding immediate payment of an
overdue bill.

Pressed for money as I was, the $10,000 seemed a large sum and offered
an easy way out of my difficulties. I shall never forget that day nor
how its slow minutes dragged during the mental struggle. Time after time
I said: "What could I not do with $10,000?" How vast the possibilities
before me with that sum at my command! Then, after all, had not the
owner of these bonds lost them forever, and why should not I have a
share instead of letting these villain detectives keep all? And through
all I kept saying to myself: "This, of course, is only speculation. I
will never do this thing."

At last the stars came out, and I started for a long walk alone up
Broadway to Fifth avenue and into the Park. Since that Park was formed
few men have ever passed its walks in whose bosoms raged such a tumult
as in mine. I was young, in love with pleasure, and poverty seemed a
fearful thing. I kept saying; "I cannot do this thing!" and then I would
add: "How am I to keep up appearances, and how am I to pay my debts?"
Unhappily, I had taken an enemy into the citadel. In the misery of the
struggle I drank heavily.

In my excitement I exaggerated my poverty until it seemed impersonated
and assumed the guise of an enemy threatening to enslave me. From 8
o'clock to 11 I paced that mall, and then left it to keep my appointment
with Irving & Co., with one thought surging through my brain, and that
was that I dared not be poor, the result being that before we parted, to
their renewed question: "Will you do this for us?" "Of course I will!" I
cried, and my feet had slipped a good many steps further down the
Primrose Way to death.

[Illustration: BURNING RETURNED BANK NOTES.]

[Illustration: IN FORT LAFAYETTE, NEW YORK HARBOR.]

[Illustration: IN FORT LAFAYETTE, NEW YORK HARBOR.]




CHAPTER IV.

FOOLS STUMBLING ON FORTUNES.


The present generation has become tolerably familiar with defalcations
and robberies involving enormous sums. Previous to 1861 they were
comparatively unknown, the reason being that the currency of the country
was strictly limited. There were absolutely no Government bonds or
currency, while the few bonds issued by corporations were not usually
made payable to bearer, and, therefore, were not negotiable, and were of
no use to the robber. But in 1861, to meet the expenses of the war, the
State banks were taxed out of existence and our present national
currency system came into being. In addition to the enormous issue of
greenbacks, bonds payable to bearer, amounting to hundreds of millions,
were issued by the general Government, by the individual States,
counties, towns and cities, all becoming popular investments.
Patriotism, and profit as well, led banks, corporations and individuals
all over the world to invest surplus funds in bonds, those of the
Government being most popular of all. The various issues authorized by
act of Congress were known as "seven-thirties," "ten-forties,"
"five-twenties," etc., these terms denoting either the rate of interest
or the period of years, dating from the first issue, wherein it was
optional with the Government to redeem them. Everywhere, at home, in the
theatres and public resorts not less than on the Exchange, were heard
animated discussions about "seven-thirties" and "ten-forties." The
business of the express companies of the United States took a new phase,
and for the first time in their history they began to be the carriers of
vast sums from city to city.

Then it was that those gentlemen who work without the pale of the law
discovered new prospects of wealth, and realized that even to crack a
safe or vault of a private firm would be rewarded by a find of bonds
that might amply repay all risks of robbery under police protection,
while to execute a successful raid on a car or even an express delivery
wagon on the street would mean wealth. To burglarize the vaults of a
bank meant, if undetected, anything from opening a magnificent bar or
hotel in New York to a steam yacht and Winter cruises in the tropics and
Summer nights on the Mediterranean.

The first coup in this line, which at once became famous, was startling
in its ease and magnitude. It was known, and still is, as "The Lord Bond
Robbery." Lord was a very wealthy man, who had inherited his millions.
His office was in Broad street, where he managed his estates. He had
invested $1,200,000 in seven-thirty bonds, all payable to bearer. For
the thief, if he had any knowledge of finance, and knew how to negotiate
them, such a sum as this in bonds was better than the same amount in
gold, it being more portable. One million two hundred thousand dollars
in gold would weigh upward of a ton, and would be difficult to handle,
but that sum in bonds would hardly fill a carpet-sack. In our day, with
safety deposit vaults everywhere, it seems strange that any sane man
would keep so vast a sum in an old-fashioned vault in his private
office, but Lord did so. His office was a very quiet one, with but few
visitors, there being no business transacted in it but that of his
estate.

[Illustration: "BY HEAVEN, I WANT MONEY."--Page 33.]

At this time there were three or four gangs in New York, all well known
and friendly with the police--that is, some or all were more or less
under "protection," and had pulls at Police Headquarters. But the pull
could not be depended upon at all times, particularly if the robbery
made a noise and the press took it up. Then there would be violent kicks
at Headquarters, and a general all-around scramble to get the thieves,
and so far as safe, stick to more or less of the plunder. The gang that
got Mr. Lord's bonds was what in police and thieves' slang was known as
"On the Office," so named because they went around visiting offices in
the business part of the city, one of the gang going in on pretense of
making some inquiry and so engaging the attention of one of the clerks.
Then the second member would come in and endeavor to attract the
attention of any remaining clerks, while the third would try to get in
without attracting attention, and, if unnoticed by those now busy
talking, would slip around behind the counter to the money drawer or
vault and carry off any cash box or package visible which appeared to be
of value. This gang consisted of three men, Hod Ennis, Charley Rose and
a man by the name of Bullard, afterward made notorious by engineering
the Boylston Bank robbery in Boston.

In the absence of Lord the office was under charge of two men,
old-fashioned fellows, who had grown gray in the service of the Lord
estate. The bonds were all in a tin box something larger than a soap
box. The interest on the bonds being due, the box had been taken out in
order to cut off the coupons, and was left in the door of the open
vault. None of these circumstances was known to these men; in fact,
while "looking for chances," they stumbled on the prize. The night
previous they had spent at a well-known faro game and had lost their
last dollar. At 9 o'clock in the morning they met at a saloon on Prince
street, where none but crooks consorted, and, borrowing a dollar from
the barkeeper, they took a South Ferry stage and started downtown on one
of many similar piratical expeditions. Of course, each paid his own
fare, as from the moment of starting until their return they appeared to
be strangers. Alighting at the ferry, they started up Front street, Rose
in lead, he being pilot-fish. From Front they turned into Broad, and up
Broad to No. 22, where there were a number of offices. Rose mounted the
staircase, it now being five minutes to 10, Bullard coming close behind.
Rose entered the first office to the left at the head of the stairs,
which was Lord's, and at once inquired by name for a member of a
well-known firm located a few doors down across the street. Lord was
away. The clerk, in his desire to serve the gentleman, went to the front
windows to point out the location of the firm. Bullard, who had lingered
in the hall, entered, leaving the office door open behind him, and at
once engaged the attention of the remaining clerk with a letter. Ennis,
seeing the coast clear, slipped in, went softly to the vault, and
perceiving the tin box, seized and carried it out, unseen by all save
his companions. They, seeing him safely off, found a quick pretext to
follow without any suspicion arising in the minds of the clerks. As a
matter of fact, they did not miss the box for nearly an hour.

Ennis carried it to Peck Slip, closely followed by his chums, and there
the three boarded a Second avenue car, all unsuspecting as to what a
prize they had. At the corner of the Bowery and Bayard street they got
out and entered that old red brick hotel on the corner--I forget the
name. They were acquainted and occasionally rendezvoused there, hiring
and paying for the room. They speedily opened the box, and were amazed
to find it packed full of bonds--five hundreds, thousands,
five-thousands, all payable to bearer. The very magnitude of their
plunder terrified them, and, knowing as much as I do about such men, I
am free to affirm that if a buyer of stolen property had appeared on the
scene and said: "Here, I'll give you $10,000 apiece," they would have
closed the deal at once and turned over the bonds, glad to get them off
their hands. What they did was this: Rose went out and bought a
second-hand carpet bag and put the bonds into it, save sixty
five-hundreds, which they divided, and Bullard resolved to leave the bag
with a friend of his. This friend, strangely enough, was the widow of a
policeman and sister of two others. But she knew nothing of Bullard's
character, believing him to be a workingman. Ennis and Rose were two
ignorant fellows, without the remotest idea of how to negotiate bonds,
but Bullard had, and, realizing how important it was to get some cash
before the thing was noised around, he started out to sell some,
agreeing to meet Rose and Ennis at No. 100 Third avenue, a large beer
saloon then, as now.

Going to different brokers' offices, he disposed of ten for $5,000
without any difficulty, and stopped at that. He met his two friends and
divided the $5,000 with them. Then, as a natural consequence with that
class of men, all got drunk, and before the next morning had spent,
loaned or gambled away every dollar of the $5,000.

I remember perfectly the tremendous sensation created when a rumor of
the robbery spread in Wall street and over the city, and what mystified
and intensified the matter was the fact that no complaint had been made
to the police. When Mr. Lord was interviewed by them and by reporters he
would not admit that he had been robbed, and said if he had been he
would prefer to lose the money rather than have a fuss made about the
affair.

This was really the first of many great bond robberies, and it struck
the popular fancy; but if it stirred Wall street greatly, who shall
describe the frenzy of excitement that broke out at 300 Mulberry
street--Police Headquarters--when the first vague rumors of a gigantic
robbery were fully confirmed, and it became known that Hod Ennis and his
gang had a million and more of plunder?

All rings and pulls and gangs were smashed, combined and recombined
again, while each and all were in an agony of fear lest the booty should
be returned to the owner--minus a percentage divided between the gang
and the ring, or sold to some clever fence, who would plant them away
safely and sell them in Europe from time to time, keeping all for
himself and they to have no share. What visions of diamond pins, of
eight or twelve carats, all Brazilian stones; of swift, high-stepping
horses; of the heaven of Harlem lane on Sunday afternoons, with a bottle
or two under the vest, haunted the sleep of all the detective force. I
say the police knew Hod Ennis and his gang had stolen the bonds, for in
those days there was not a gang of confidence men, card sharpers, bank
burglars, counterfeiters or forgers traveling the country but that the
gang and every member of it was well known to the Police Department of
each of our large cities. Whenever a job was done a score of detectives
all over the country could say such and such a gang did the job, and
they were almost always right.

Whether there was "something in" for the force to arrest and convict or
not, as a matter of fact the thieves were sooner or later hocus-pocussed
out of their share, either by the police, by some untrustworthy fence,
or by some lawyer who was pitched upon to work back the securities on a
percentage. In case the thief succeeded in saving part of the proceeds
he immediately lost it at faro or in revelry, and then risked his
liberty for more.

I know two men who to-day walk the streets of New York, the types of
conservative respectability, members of many fashionable clubs, who, in
the sixties, were known as fences, and were always ready to invest cash
for stolen bonds. Both of these men compromised with their conscience by
beating down the price and giving the thieves but a moiety of their
value. Both of them have their fads; one is a connoisseur in violins,
the other has a penchant for orchids, and has much local fame for the
rarities in his collection.

Before midnight of the day of the robbery it became known to the force
and many of the hangers-on of the gambling saloons and barrooms of the
Eighth Ward that Hod Ennis and his gang had money, and it was surmised
that it must be from the Lord business. In the mean time Bullard took
the bag of bonds up to Norwalk, Ct., and placed them for safe-keeping
with a trusty friend, first taking out one hundred bonds of five hundred
each and fifty of one thousand each, and, returning to the city, divided
them with his comrades. During his absence the photographs of the three
men had been shown at Police Headquarters to the two clerks, but they
were unable to identify them.

Within the next few days the $100,000 in bonds were completely
dissipated; some were sold to buyers of stolen goods for a percentage of
the value, some were lost at the gambling games--mostly at Morrissey's,
or at Mike Murray's on Broadway, near Spring street, and probably some
went Mulberry street way. Matters were thickening, and, fearing arrest,
Ennis fled to Canada, Bullard to Europe and Rose went West to
California. Eventually Ennis was convicted of a crime committed some
time before. He was sentenced to a long imprisonment, and came out an
old, broken-down man, without a dollar and without a friend. Rose was
sentenced to five years for another crime, and then disappeared. Bullard
settled down in Paris. He afterward returned and planned the Boylston
Bank affair in Boston. With his share of the plunder he went back to
Paris and opened an American bar at the Grand Hotel and flourished for
some years; but, wanting money, he committed a robbery in Belgium, was
arrested, and is now serving a long sentence for the same; no doubt, if
he survives, he will emerge friendless, penniless, a stranger in a
strange world.

If I were inclined to indulge in reminiscences, what a catalogue could
be given of men who had, like myself, drifted into the Primrose Way, and
all, or nearly all, have paid a terrible penalty for their
wrongdoing--none more terrible than myself. As for our violin virtuoso,
he seems to have conquered fate. So, too, with the connoisseur in
orchids; but let us wait until the end before we say all is well with
them.

Some time later on, meeting one of these detectives, now dead, who then
ranked as the best in New York, in the confidence of the bankers, he
said: "I am getting old and am now working for reputation, and
consequently am not taking any more percentages. Of course, I don't
molest any of my old friends, but those who are not under protection I
run in and send them up the river (Sing Sing) as fast as I get them to
rights."

This need not be considered a condemnation of all detectives, for there
were, even in my time, a few honest ones of the Pinkerton and John
Curtin class--the latter being now one of San Francisco's most reliable,
who, by unusually considerate judgment, has made honorable citizens of a
very large number of clerks whom he had been called upon to detect and
arrest. This he accomplished by extracting a confession in writing,
filing it among his secret papers, then saying to the trembling clerk:
"I shall have you reinstated in your position, but if you go wrong again
this confession will be made public."

The following incident will further enlighten the reader as to the way
things were done in those good old days:

When Boss Tweed was in the full zenith of his power and glory and of the
wealth so easily acquired by certain methods, his daughter was married.
All of the then chiefs and district officers of Tammany, city officials,
judges and heads of departments vied with each other in the presentation
of wedding gifts, among which was a check for $100,000 from the father.
Seldom has any bride received a more magnificent tribute, for, coming
from such sources, they were nothing less than a tribute. Especially was
this the case with one much-admired gift which was contributed by us
just after an illicit operation of $40,000 in Wall street, $4,000 of
which was paid to Irving.

In the column list of wedding gifts in the next morning's papers was:
"One solid silver punch bowl, value $500, presented by Superintendent
Kelso." Shortly after paying Irving the $4,000 percentage we met him one
evening at the St. Cloud Hotel. Mentioning the approaching Tweed
marriage, he suggested that it would be the thing, and make us more
solid with the Superintendent of Police, for us to make a fine present
to "the old man," one that he could use as a gift to the bride. As $500
was not much to our party in those days, we assented, and handed over
that amount.

Tiffany's was then located down Broadway, and among other things on
exhibition in the window was a large, handsome silver punch bowl. This
was purchased with our money, which was known to have been obtained by
forgery, and presented to Superintendent Kelso. A few days later the
bowl reappeared in the window of Tiffany's thus inscribed:

  +-----------------------------------------+
  |                                         |
  |           TO CATHERINE TWEED.           |
  |                                         |
  |               Presented by              |
  |                                         |
  |               JAMES KELSO,              |
  |                                         |
  |         Superintendent of Police.       |
  |                                         |
  |   "May loyalty and love know no end."   |
  |                                         |
  +-----------------------------------------+




CHAPTER V.

WHEN BOSS TWEED WAS NEW YORK'S OWNER AND JIM FISK, PROPRIETOR OF OUR
JUDGES.


What a look of relief and triumph swept over the faces of Irving,
Stanley and White when I gave my consent to their proposal to take the
stolen bonds to Europe and negotiate them there. We understood each
other now, and casting aside all reserve, their tongues wagged freely,
and they eagerly told me how confident they were of my ability to
dispose of the bonds successfully, and also of my good faith; and,
furthermore, told me I was the only man they would have trusted. Of
course, they had no security save my word, for under the circumstances
they could hardly ask me for a receipt, and even had I given one it
would have been valueless had I chosen to retain the proceeds of the
bonds. Thus, becoming the important member of the firm, I told them to
produce the securities and I would sail immediately. It was finally
settled that I should go by the steamer Russia of the Cunard line, which
was down for sailing at 7 a.m. Wednesday, and they were to deliver the
bonds to me on Tuesday night. Upon my demanding cash to pay expenses,
their faces fell, but quickly brightened when I told them to give me a
thousand-dollar bond and I would borrow that amount from a friend, using
it for security. There was no danger of the number of the bond being
inspected, and, of course, I would pay the note upon my return and
receive the bond again.

[Illustration: WALL STREET AND SOME OF ITS CHARACTERS IN MY TIME.--Page
26.]

They told me many amusing lies as to how the securities came into their
possession, and as to who were the rightful owners. The truth was, as I
afterward learned, they were a part of the stolen Lord bonds.

Bonds issued by our Government and held in Europe, chiefly in Holland
and Germany, were so enormous in volume and passed so freely from hand
to hand, that it was easy for a well-dressed, business-appearing man to
sell any quantity, even if stolen, as by law the innocent holder could
not be deprived of them. One great advantage a dishonest man had at that
date in Europe, especially an American, was that if he dressed well they
considered he must be a gentleman, and if he had money that was a proof
of respectability--one they never thought of questioning, nor how he
came by it; then, again, it was an article of their creed that all
Americans are rich.

The next morning (Tuesday), Irving met me near the Exchange, and, with
some trepidation, drew from an inner pocket an envelope containing the
thousand-dollar bond. Without waiting to examine it, I walked off,
saying: "I'll be back in ten minutes." He was evidently alarmed, and,
like all rogues, suspicious of every one. He probably had some wild idea
that I was laying a trap for him. In his ignorance of money methods he
thought it would be a long, perhaps difficult, negotiation to borrow
money on the bond, but, of course, I made short work of it; and "Jimmy"
was more than delighted when within the ten minutes I walked in with ten
one hundreds in my hand. A trifle like this made a great impression upon
Irving, and from that time on I had his entire confidence. Tuesday
evening I said good-bye to my mother, merely remarking in explanation of
my journey that I had a commission given me to execute in Europe.

Leaving her, I went to our rendezvous, near Broadway and Astor place,
where I found Irving, who handed me over his "boodle" (as he termed
it), remarking confidentially that I was to give him on my return his
share into his own hands; and, singularly enough, each of the others did
precisely the same thing. About 11 o'clock the other two came in, and
after some parley White handed over his bonds, and Stanley informed me
he would give me his on board before the steamer sailed the next
morning. I had already paid my bill and sent my baggage over to Jersey
City, so about midnight I set out, they accompanying me as far as the
ferry, and there, after shaking hands a half dozen times, we said
good-bye. Having bought my ticket and engaged my cabin, I went direct to
the steamer and went to bed. In the morning Stanley appeared and gave me
his bonds. Ten minutes later the hawsers were cast off and we were
steaming down the bay. Two hours later Fire Island sank beneath the
horizon, and we were alone on the sea.

Alone on the sea! and a fitting place to tell the story of a famous New
York bank robbery.

In the good old days when Bill Tweed was New York's owner, when Jim Fisk
was the proprietor of our judges and Kelso sat in Mulberry street, the
king of those good men, the police, who defend our lives and property,
this city became a spectacle to gods and men such as we thought then
could never be equaled. We thought so then, but we were not endowed with
second sight, nor with the gift of prophecy, or we might, perhaps, have
reserved our judgment. Still, our masters were a unique collection, and
if they have been equaled or surpassed since, they held with easy grasp
the pre-eminence among all American rulers who had shone and flourished
up to the time when those great men gave us new ideas upon the science
of government. The average and quiet citizen, shocked as he might be and
grumble as he did at the impudent plundering by our masters, their
contempt of public opinion and the cynical display of their luxury,
would doubtless have confined himself to grumbling and to calling for
slow-arriving thunderbolts to crash the oppressors who were despoiling
him had he felt certain that the plunder would be confined to them, that
his property would be safe, at least, from the attacks of those
insignificant, despicable but eminently dangerous plunderers who became
known to the police as common criminals. This, however, was not so.
After being flayed by iniquitous taxes, which he knew were destined to
add to the stores of Tweed, Connolly & Company, he had every day
abundant proof that what the big rascals left him, the little ones would
soon try, by burglary or robbery, to ravish from him, and that they
would do it with perfect immunity, unterrified either by the fear of
present arrest or of later punishment. The Mulberry street office was
divided into three or four little pools, each with its clientele of
dependents, all of whom faithfully and immediately reported to their
patrons the result of any little job they had been engaged in, handing
over to the representative of the pool the 20 per cent. of the result,
which was Headquarters' established commission. This was the ordinary
rate when gentlemen skilled in transferring other people's watches and
portemonnaies from the pockets of their owners to their own, or when
others who had devoted their talents to demonstrating practically the
enormous power of the jimmy and wedge originated and carried out by
themselves the operations peculiar to those classes of industries.

It sometimes happened that special cases offered, for which special
terms were arranged. Such cases stood by themselves. They were confided
only to the acknowledged heads of the profession. Standing outside of
all recognized rules, they were treated apart. Headquarters men were
always sent to the seat of operations to prevent interference, and, in
case of need, to protect their partners. Many a mysterious robbery was
perpetrated to which no clue was ever found; many an anxious search was
undertaken by the bloodhounds of the law to find the robbers, that they
might crack a bottle together and rejoice over the success of their
operations, and sometimes they were joined by men the mention of whose
names in such company would have excited incredulous and unbounded
amazement.

The gigantic heavings of the war were struggling to rest, but the men
whose minds were unhinged and thrown off their balance by the possession
of large sums flowing from transactions, a little irregular, perhaps,
but which the necessities of Government permitted, were endeavoring, by
any means, to open up new fountains of wealth in place of those which
the close of the war had exhausted.

One of the resources presenting itself most naturally to men in a
position to profit by it was speculating with other people's money, and
very naturally the result of such speculation was disastrous in the
highest degree. When detection became inevitable the defaulter generally
fled, hoping to find in a foreign land safety from the stroke of justice
and a shelter from the reproaches of his victims.

Occasionally, one more resolute, dreading flight as much as detection,
flung himself into schemes which, if they failed, meant the most hideous
and utter ruin, but which, if they succeeded, rendered discovery
impossible, and made his position more solid than ever before. One day,
late in the sixties, in the parlor of a bank in Greenwich street, a
gentleman was anxiously scanning the books of the establishment. He
alone in all the institution knew of a secret which would horrify his
brother officials and carry desolation to scores of homes, the first to
suffer being his own. Perhaps had it been possible to exempt this one
home, the misery of the others would not have greatly affected him. But
suffering must be kept from his own house, and all and any means to
banish it would be and must be good.

The gentleman in whose mind these thoughts were passing was the
president of the bank, who knew himself to be a defaulter to an enormous
amount, and who was now anxiously reflecting upon the means to cover up
his robberies. Fortunately for him he was acquainted with the one man
who more than any other in all America was able to help him. This was
Capt. Irving. The president was a man of nerve. He knew, as everybody
else knew, the relations in which the police stood to the thieves, and
he felt that if he could arrange to have his own bank robbed, his
difficulties would vanish, and his share in the defalcations be covered
up.

Little time was left to him before the inevitable discovery, but the
prompt and skillful use he made of it to extricate himself from the
fearful danger of his position makes one almost regret that a man of
such resolution and such opportunities should prove to the world that
high qualities may exist when the moral sense is entirely wanting.
Irving was quickly taken into his confidence, the position explained,
the proposition to rob the bank broached, all possible co-operation in
the way of leaving safes unlocked and doors open, or what, of course,
amounts to the same thing, of furnishing keys and information to open
everything, promised, and then Irving was asked if he could find men to
carry the job into execution. New York in those days was well supplied
with such artists, but the right men to carry out so momentous an
operation had to be sought. The difficulty, however, was not great, and
Irving promptly assured the honorable president that he might
confidently count on the right men at the right time.

Among the professionals who twenty-three or four years ago were
considered "valuable" men at Police Headquarters were Mike Hurley,
Patsey Conroy and Max Shinburn. These were the men whom Irving instantly
determined to employ, and whom he forthwith set about to find. That not
being a matter of any difficulty, the same night the three men met
Irving at his own house, and were delighted over the revelation he made
to them.

One would like to know with what sentiment a man occupying an honorable
and responsible position, a Sunday-school superintendent, the head of a
great financial institution, well known in the money world and respected
in society, slunk to a midnight meeting with burglars.

Did no feeling of shame crimson his face, no sinking of disgust oppress
his heart, as he slipped into a house, where, although he kept aloof
from actual contact with the ruffians, the details of an enormous crime
of which he was the author were debated and settled?

Prudential reasons doubtless kept him from forming a personal
acquaintance with his agents. The risk of exposing himself to future
blackmail must not be incurred, and one may well believe that he shrank
from clasping the hands of these men, who were eagerly awaiting him.
Whatever were his feelings, his desperate position suffered no halting.
The storm was ready to break at any moment. In an instant he might be a
wretched fugitive, with terror before him and infamy howling behind. But
one way led out of this labyrinth. He had resolutely planted his feet in
that way, determined to tread it to the end. He did tread it to the end,
and he came out victorious.

If the suspicions of any afterward pointed toward him, no syllable of
the suspicions was breathed. Who dared suspect that an honorable citizen
had ever, in the dead of night, crept like a robber to a meeting of
outlaws, to concoct the details of an outrageous breach of trust, of a
crime which--none knew it better than he--would carry life-long misery
and suffering to the families of nearly every man who trusted him?

[Illustration: "THE DETECTIVES SIGNALED THE BURGLARS: 'THE COAST IS
CLEAR.'"--Page 57.]

"The evil that men do lives after them," but where does the
responsibility of its author end? Who will ever say what crimes may
spring from the one act of wrongdoing, crimes committed, it may be,
by persons who were directly led into them by the consequences of an act
the perpetrator of which had never heard of those affected by it? How
far does the responsibility of the wrongdoer extend? What weight of
horror is he accumulating on his head?

Such questions may perhaps occur afterward, when the pleasure has been
tasted and is gone, and nothing remains of the detected crime but the
ruin it has wrought; but in the excitement of laying the plot, in the
glamour which the hope of success casts over the schemer, they probably
never intrude, conscience is smothered, and he is left to carry out his
schemes to the end.

Doubtless no such thoughts disturbed the president, as he waited that
night while Irving acted as go-between, carrying messages from him to
the agents and from the agents back again to him. At last the
arrangements were made. Duplicate keys of the safe were to be provided,
and a way, to be presently explained, was to be left open to each of
them. Whatever the robbers found in the safes was to be theirs, and the
task of getting it was to be of the easiest. This, of course, was highly
satisfactory to the thieves, but something more must be prepared for the
stockholders and the public. Bank safes are not so easily emptied; there
must be the appearance, at least, of great effort to effect the robbery,
and marks of the effort must be left behind.

It was, therefore, settled that powerful tools were to be provided,
tools able to tear open any strong-box in the world. Such articles are
expensive, and the burglars had no money to procure them. No man who
knows those people will be surprised at this, for, however much money
they may obtain, they never have anything. It melts out of their hands,
and they would be themselves embarrassed to say what becomes of it.

The president's first necessity, therefore, was to pay out about a
thousand dollars for the jimmies, wedges and all the paraphernalia of
the burglars' industry. This he did. Irving took charge of the money,
and he had far too great an interest in the scheme to suffer the cash to
be squandered. The agreement was that on the following day Conroy should
present himself at the bank to hire a vacant basement, the roof of which
formed the floor of the room where the safes were lodged. The president
undertook to smooth any difficulties in the way of requiring references,
and promised that he should be accepted as a tenant.

This agreement was punctually carried out. Conroy made his application,
the basement was granted to him, the rent paid in advance for the
edification of the clerks, and he at once entered in possession. Hurley
and Shinburne joined him, and the following Saturday they removed so
much of the ceiling that but a few minutes' work was required to
complete a hole which should serve as a doorway to the vaults above when
the bank closed in the evening.

[Illustration: MACHINE FOR WEIGHING GOLD.]




CHAPTER VI.

CHEATED VISIONS AND VANISHED HOPES.


Saturday night was the time chosen to get into the bank, and the
plunderers were to remain there until Sunday. The members of Irving's
ring were to keep watch to prevent any officious interference from
passers-by or from ward policemen. Carriages were to be in waiting at
some convenient place on Sunday morning, and when the men inside
received a signal from their police accomplices on the outside, they
were to leave the bank, abandoning their tools, and carrying away
nothing but the money and the securities they had stolen. So far, the
way was plain; the keys had long before been prepared, tested and found
to work properly; full instructions were given as to the way to use
them, but the way inside was not yet open.

A night watchman was employed on the premises, and he, of course, was to
be got rid of. Little ceremony was to be used in treating him. He was to
be seized, overcome by any means, bound, gagged and rendered helpless
until Monday, and the fact that he always passed Sunday in the bank,
prevented any remark at home upon his continued absence. The details of
the plot were thus satisfactorily settled, and at a late hour the
conspirators separated.

In the early morning of that day the three burglars were standing in the
cellar to which they had lowered their booty, waiting for the signal to
come out. At last it was given, when the precious trio slipped out,
carrying their precious bags. A covered carriage was posted in an
adjoining street, into which the whole party entered, flurried and
excited, and rapidly drove to Irving's residence. There the contents of
the bags were carefully examined. The actual cash was easily disposed
of, but what was to be done with the bonds?

The arrangement finally agreed upon, to be detailed presently, shows
that if there be circumstances in which a little learning is a dangerous
thing, one of them is not just after the perpetration of a gigantic
burglary.

The Monday following its execution confusion and amazement reigned in
the bank. The clerks on their arrival were astounded to find the safe
doors wide open, torn and smashed by the tools which lay scattered over
the floor, and the night watchman, gagged and bound, was discovered,
nearly dead, in a neighboring room. One of the clerks jumped into a cab
and rushed to Police Headquarters in Mulberry street to report the
robbery. Irving was sitting in his office, busy with the night reports,
when the messenger was introduced to tell of the bank's calamity.

The excellent chief listened with breathless attention, and was
naturally horror-struck at the perpetration of such a crime. Calling a
couple of his trusted sleuths, he hastily communicated the surprising
news, and the three hurried with the clerk back to Greenwich street.
Arrived there they minutely examined the premises, and gave it as their
opinion, judging from the style of the work and from the tools which lay
around, that the burglary had been committed by a well-known burglar
named Harry Penrose, and that the night watchman, whom they immediately
placed under arrest, must have been his accomplice.

The president had sent word to the bank that he was unwell, and would
not be able to attend to business that day, but the terrible news was
immediately telegraphed to him, and, in spite of his illness, he hurried
to town. It is impossible to describe his astonishment and distress at
the sight which met his eyes. In the presence of the clerks he held
anxious consultations with the detectives, who assured him that they had
already taken the first steps to unravel the mystery, and that every
possible effort would be made to discover the criminals. In the privacy
of his own office he explained to the reporters that he had left in the
bank four hundred thousand dollars in cash and bonds, every farthing of
which had disappeared.

As soon as the news was published the excitement among the depositors
and the stockholders of the bank was, of course, immense. A run set in,
which the directors by the help of friends and of their own private
resources were able to meet, but the Wall street appreciation of the
calamity was shown in the drop in value of the bank's stock from 130 to
40.

I repeat, a little learning is a dangerous thing. Much knowledge is not
to be looked for among men who engage in such crimes, but one would
fancy that the everyday experience of Irving and his people would have
given them some idea of financial business. The fact is, they were, if
possible, more ignorant than their felonious partners. The financial
ideas of the latter scarcely went further than "making cheap pennyworths
of their plunder, giving to courtesans and living like lords till all be
gone," so that negotiating the sale of bonds was a mystery far too high
for them--something which they could never hope to attain to. But the
company included one man who was a rare exception to the ordinary ride
of such society. This was Max Shinburne, a German, a man of considerable
education, who, in some inexplicable way, had fallen so far from honor
and respectability that when he saw a thief he "consented unto him."

How is it that such men are often found in the ranks of professional
criminals? They would probably have difficulty to explain it themselves.
A want of savoir faire, the fact that they have never been taught to
make a practical use of their acquirements, the pressure of temptation
at a critical moment, the absence, possibly, from harm, leading to the
hope of immunity--all, perhaps, enter into the explanation of the secret
promptings which have led to the first false step, to the first planting
of the feet in the path which leads to destruction. Once the step is
taken, to retrace it seems impossible. The line which society draws, and
which it proclaims no man shall overstep without punishment, may be
approached very closely, but once on the wrong side, once the fateful
step is taken, the act is irretrievable; to attempt to retrace it is to
attempt to undo the past; it is all but impossible.

Thus probably it is that the fall of an educated man is more hopeless
than that of one who knows no better. A carpenter or a blacksmith who
has got himself in a tangle has only to move to another town, and if he
shakes off perverted thoughts and perverted influences, he is not much
worse off than before. He has kept his trade, and his trade will keep
him.

Nobody is going to inquire about a workman who can do his work. The
employer requires nothing more than that the work be done, and if it be
done he neither thinks nor cares anything more about either it or the
worker.

With the educated man the case is different. The sentiments of the class
he belongs to are less yielding, the fineness of his own feelings has
been too deeply wounded, and when he has stabbed his reputation, he is
apt, foolishly, of course, to fling the rest of his respectability after
it.

With qualities and advantages which might have fitted him for a useful
and honorable position in life, Shinburne was at less than 30 years of
age the companion of outcasts. But whatever his moral failings, his
knowledge remained, and it was for him, at least, to be valuable.

To get rid of the bonds in America was impossible, except by sacrificing
them to a stolen goods receiver, who would have given but a small
percentage of their value.

A steamer was to sail for Europe that day, and it was agreed that
Shinburne should go by her, with one of the other robbers as company,
sell the bonds before the news of the robbery could get across the
ocean, then return and fairly divide the proceeds.

This was the arrangement, but Shinburne had already begun to have other
dreams and other ambitions. He saw a chance to restore himself, or, at
least, to snatch at a position which would give him weight to crush down
sinister reports or envious whisperings, and he determined forthwith to
seize it. What the bank president had done to save himself from infamy,
Shinburne would do to recover himself from infamy. It can be, therefore,
easily understood that he accepted without hesitation the other's
proposal.

The steamer did not sail until noon. There was, therefore, plenty of
time to make preparations, and, besides, he had a little private
business to attend to. Leaving the securities in Irving's charge, with a
promise to meet the party at 11, he took his share of the cash and
departed.

Some time before this, with a skill and forethought rarely to be found
in the class he then belonged to, he had bought some building lots near
the park. Fortunate, indeed, the speculation eventually proved to be. In
the mean time, placing his lots in the hands of a responsible agent, and
taking drafts on Europe for his money, he rapidly made the little
preparation he needed, and at 11 joined his party, there to receive
nearly $200,000 in bonds, and to set out with Mike Hurley for the
steamer.

After hurried parting injunctions from the Headquarters men, the two
travelers, accompanied by Conroy, to see them off, were rapidly driven
to the steamer. Punctually to the hour the hawsers were cast off, and
with barely time to say good-bye the cronies parted. A moment after the
screw began to turn, and the Cunarder's bow pointed toward England.

Arrived in Liverpool, the pair proceeded at once to London. Hurley, who
was as ignorant of foreign travel as of everything else, was easily
tricked by some tale of no evening trains for the Continent. Shinburne
plied him well with liquor, taking care to mix the bottles, and when he
had got him helplessly drunk he took the bonds and with his little
luggage slipped quietly off to the Continent, never to see his dupe or
his New York friends again.

He went to Germany, called himself "Count" Shinburne, bought an estate
and began to exercise large hospitality toward his neighbors.

No man on all the length of the Rhine was so popular as he. No man's
house and table, horses and gardens were so praised as his. In the eyes
of the beggar nobles of the Fatherland the man who could give such
dinners and in such succession, must belong to the choice members of the
human race. Day by day Max's position grew more solid. No breath was
ever whispered against him, and with a little prudence he might have
kept up his state and died in the odor of sanctity. But the taste of
grandeur was too sweet, the incense of his little world's flattery too
precious to run the smallest risk of losing it. His display exceeded his
means, but for nothing in the world would he have curtailed it.

Matters were in this way until he awoke one day to find his account
overdrawn on his bankers. Then it was that he began to remember his
operation in Greenwich street, and he seems to have thought that if he
succeeded in New York, surely nothing could stand in his way in some
sleepy town in Europe.

[Illustration: "WITH HORROR THE SISTERS SAW THE COUNTESS AIRING THE
HISTORIC BRACELET."--Page 68.]

He went to Brussels prospecting, and soon pitched upon an establishment
which he thought likely to reward his industry. But the result showed
that to walk into a bank when the way was left open, with the
authorities anxious to see him there, and to force his way in when the
entrance was jealously barred with the guardians determined he should
stay out, were two very different things. He made the attempt, was
arrested and sentenced to sixteen years' imprisonment. His German
friends heard of his mishap, and his glory faded like the early dew.

Naturally, every one thought that the count's career had closed, that
the star of his fate had declined, that the bars of his prison house
were about him forever. They were greatly mistaken. After some twelve or
thirteen years he succeeded in getting a pardon and managed to make his
way to America. His first visit was to the agents in whose hands he had
left the management of his park lots. He went into their office, not
knowing whether or not he was a pauper. He came out knowing himself to
be nearly a millionaire.

During the almost twenty years of his absence his lots had increased
enormously in value. Once more he was a rich man, once more he might
emerge from his eclipse and become a power of a certain kind in the
class of society he could get access to, but his experience had taught
him something. His advancing years had left him but little desire for
display. He came back to a world which knew him not: and few of those
who notice a benevolent-looking old gentleman, who often passes an
afternoon in upper Broadway, suspect that under an assumed name he hides
the identity of Max Shinburne, the bank burglar.

When Hurley awoke from his drunken fit in London and recognized that his
partner had both robbed and deserted him, he felt that his mission was
over, and that nothing remained but to return at once to America. Loud
and long and wrathful were the complaints over Shinburne's treachery.
Whatever he did to others, all felt that his dealings with them ought to
have been "on the square," but there was no help for it. He had
disappeared, and faint, indeed, was the chance that they would ever see
him again. The success of the crime, so far as they were concerned, had,
after all, been a failure. Vanished hopes and cheated visions were
their share, instead of the wealth they had anticipated, and in their
devouring rage they tried to console themselves with the thought of what
they would do to him if they ever met Shinburne.

The only man who had any real success from the scheme was the president.
Exposure had become impossible. He had taken good care not to leave too
much in the safes for his accomplices, and he was henceforth a wealthy
man. The bank, desperately shaken by the robbery, fell so greatly in the
esteem of the public that not long after it failed. The president gave
up banking, and began to speculate in real estate. He increased in
riches and prospered in the world. He called his lands after his own
name. He thought his house would continue forever, and men praised him,
because he did well to himself. He settled his children comfortably in
life, and when he died, not so very long ago, all felt that the world
was better because he had lived in it, and that, although their loss
when he was taken was heavy, it was, nevertheless, his great gain.




CHAPTER VII.

GILDED SIRS WHO ARE NOT WISE.


After a pleasant voyage the Russia arrived, and one May morning I walked
into the Northwestern Railway station in Liverpool to take the train for
London. The bonds were in a little handbag, and I was free to look
around. Everything was novel and strange, and all things told me I was
in a foreign land. I had, like most young people, a particularly good
opinion of myself and something of an idea as to my own importance.

We arrived in London amid a drizzling rain, and I was much impressed
with the mighty roar of the traffic in the streets. We drove to Langham
place, where I had a regular English tea, and liked it immensely, too.
The next night I left Victoria Station for Dover, and crossing the
Channel to Ostend, went through to Brussels and stopped there, having
wanted, ever since boyhood, to visit the field of Waterloo. I looked
through the city that day, visiting the famous City Hall and one of the
art galleries. Retiring early I arose early and drove out to the plain
immortalized by the giant struggle of those valiant hosts, but did not
purchase any of the relics which were freely offered. These have been
sold by shiploads to two generations of visitors. Returning to Brussels,
I paid my bill at the Hotel de Paris, and was amused over the
inventiveness of the proprietor in making charges--towels, candles,
soap, attendance, paper, envelopes, being among them.

Going to the station I bought my ticket for Frankfort--that old town I
was destined to see so much of during the next few years. On my journey
I would pass through Cologne, and from there the railway skirts the bank
of the Rhine. This being my first visit to Europe, I was intensely
curious to see everything, especially the Cathedral at Cologne, and was
eager to linger a few days along the banks of the Rhine. But I was more
eager to complete the bond negotiations, and wisely resolved to go
direct to Frankfort, sell the bonds, then, with the money in my pocket
and all anxiety over, I would be in a state of mind to enjoy a short
holiday.

I traveled through Belgium and some parts of Germany by daylight, and
was, as most Americans are who travel on the Continent, shocked to see
the employment of women. Soon after leaving Brussels I saw the, to me,
novel sight of a number of women shoveling coal, handling the shovel
like men. In other places I saw them laboring in the brick yards,
digging and wheeling clay, and everywhere they were to be seen working
at men's work in the fields.

A traveler in my compartment proved a most entertaining companion. He
described himself to me as one who "went about pottering over a lot of
antiquities and fooling around generally."

But my friend, the pottering old antiquary, gave me something of a
surprise. At Chalours all of our fellow travelers in the compartment
left us. Two of them were voluble French women, and they kept it up with
amazing energy for the six hours from Brussels to Chalours. At every
unusual swaying of the car there would be a volley of "Mon Dieus!" and
ear-piercing exclamations, and it was certainly a relief when they left.

Bringing out a box of cigars, and my companion producing a flask of
wine, we soon became confidential. Presently, to my great amusement, my
Old Antiquary, warmed by the wine, confided to me that he was a
detective police officer and chief of the secret service at Antwerp,
that he was then working on a famous case, and had been shadowing one of
the ladies who had journeyed with us from Brussels. Before leaving
Brussels, he had discovered his quarry was to quit the train, and as he
had to go on to Mayence, he had turned the business over to a
confederate.

I was young, and no doubt he thought me innocent; certainly he did not
withhold his confidence. This is the case he was investigating:

There was a wealthy gentleman by the name of Van Tromp living in
Antwerp, a widower, 70 years of age, the father of a grown-up family,
and many times a grandfather. It had been his custom to go to
Baden-Baden every Summer, spending money freely both in pleasure and in
the famous gambling resorts there. The last time he had met a woman, the
Countess Winzerode, one of the many adventuresses to be found there, and
speedily became infatuated. This Van Tromp was a descendant of old
Admiral Van Tromp, who, in the mighty life-and-death struggle between
Holland and Spain, and in the two wars with England, the first when
Cromwell ruled, the second when the Second Charles was on the throne,
held up the fame and glory of Holland. In one case he swept the proud
navies of Spain from the seas and carried the Dutch flag around the
world. In the other, he was only vanquished after stubborn sea-fights
lasting for days, and only ended then because the stout admiral lay on
his deck with an English bullet in his heart. This Van Tromp was the
heir of the fame and the wealth of all the Van Tromps, and both had gone
on accumulating for 300 years.

The self-styled Countess knew all this, and, as the sequel shows, knew
her man. She was 40, had been beautiful, was still comely, with good
figure, fair-haired, but with steel-blue eyes. She spoke many languages
and had dwelt in every land from Petersburg to Paris. It is needless to
tell how they first met or of the intimacy that sprang up between them,
but I will merely say in passing that within five days of their first
meeting he had given her a magnificent diamond bracelet, which had been
in his family more than a century. This alarmed his two daughters, who
were terrified at the mere suspicion that their father was in earnest,
and might possibly present them with a stepmother, above all, a
comparatively young stepmother, and, so far as physique went, a
magnificent animal, with promise of a long life--so long that her rights
of dower would make a cut in the Van Tromp estates and treasures, which
might well cause the old Admiral to rouse himself from his three-century
sleep in Dordrecht Church and once more walk these glimpses of the moon
in protest of the sacrilege. Then the scandal of a Countess-adventuress
becoming a Van Tromp--head of that family, too! They knew of his
penchant for the Countess, and cared nothing for it, until, with a
feeling akin to horror they observed at the dress ball one night the
Countess airing the historic bracelet. It would require a volume to
relate the scenes that followed in the Van Tromp domicile on this
paralyzing discovery; but prayers, tears and histrionic touches were all
met by the stolid reply of Van Tromp: "I please myself."

As a last resort the daughters appealed to the Countess, offering all
their ready cash and a pension if she would only disappear. But visions
of the Van Tromp diamonds and of the Van Tromp bank account were in her
head and she was deaf to every appeal. In fact, she despised these
heavy, matter-of-fact Dutch ladies, and rather gloried to think that she
would soon be the female head of the Van Tromp house and stepmother to
these two highly respectable dames, who would perforce have to live in
her shadow. But then, of course, the Countess was a woman, and it is to
be feared that even good women love to triumph over others. She, of
course, could have no love for this portly old gentleman of seventy.
But it is pitiful to think he was madly infatuated. The poor old man, in
spite of his unromantic appearance, had warm blood in his veins and
plenty of romance in his heart. At last, in spite of gossip and
opposition, they were married, and then, instead of settling down, as
the happy groom had hoped, to a life of wedded bliss in one of his
country houses at Dordrecht, Lady Van Tromp insisted on spending her
honeymoon in Paris. There they went, and the very day of their arrival
the bride resumed a liaison with a beggarly count, who, not being an
actual criminal, yet was written black enough in the books of the Paris
police, and for whom the Countess had as warm an admiration as one of
her cold, calculating nature was capable of feeling.

Van Tromp speedily found his dream of bliss blown to the winds, but he
was not so blind as not to see that his wife not only did not love him,
but was false to him as well. Poor old Van Tromp felt he had made his
last throw for happiness, and hoping against hope, dreamed she in time
would learn to appreciate his devotion and would love him, and so tried
to persuade himself of her truth. The first anniversary of the marriage
found them at Baden-Baden, and there the unhappy husband, thinking to
give his wife a pleasant surprise, entered her chamber at an unusual
hour bearing a diamond necklace for a present, and found her in a
position which could no longer leave any doubt as to her faithlessness.
Seizing a chair he felled her companion, who never stirred again; but
the shock was too great for the husband, who himself fell to the floor
and instantly expired--the doctors said of heart disease, and I think
they were right. This event was only a few weeks old. The will had been
read, and it was found that he had literally left everything "to my
wife, Elizabeth."

Here my friend, the chief of police and a distant relative of Van Tromp,
came to the front, determined quietly on his own account to investigate
Lady Van Tromp. He found this last was at least her third venture on
the stormy sea of matrimony. He had a fancy that some one of her
husbands might still be living and undiscovered. If this could be
proved, then her marriage to Van Tromp was no marriage, and the ducats,
dollars and diamonds bequeathed by Van Tromp to "my wife, Elizabeth,"
would instantly melt into air--into very thin air, so far as the
Countess was concerned; provided, of course, they had not actually
passed into her clutches. In fact, they were legally hers, for the will
had been admitted to probate. Those of the family objecting could offer
no valid opposition, and she had been put in possession, but, by a
strange neglect on her part, left everything intact, save a deposit of
300,000 gulden in the Bank of Amsterdam, which she secured and set out
for Naples with a new lover.

The detective--whom I will call Amstel--discovered that she had first
been married when only 15 years old to a young Swiss in Geneva, who soon
left her and fled to America. He had subsequently returned to Europe,
but Amstel was unable to discover his whereabouts or if he was living.
He suspected that the Swiss was not only alive but in communication with
the Countess, and that she, in fact, might be his legal wife. He had
followed the Countess from Naples to Paris. There she left her lover and
was now on her way to Nuremberg, as Amstel believed, to meet her first
husband, but she had arranged to remain a few days with some old friends
of hers. Every movement she made there would be watched, while Amstel,
going on to Cologne to look up some clues, intended to wait there until
informed that she had departed, and when the train arrived at Cologne he
proposed to enter it and follow my lady on, hoping to witness a meeting
between her and the much hoped-for husband. Happily we had arrived at
Cologne at this point in the story, and as Amstel was to remain here we
had to say good-bye; but for the whole twenty minutes of my stay we
walked up and down the platform talking eagerly of the case. I had
become much interested, so deeply, indeed, that had I had leisure I
certainly should have turned amateur detective and joined Amstel.

[Illustration: LONDON POLICEMAN.--ST. PAUL'S IN DISTANCE.]

The train started, and, promising to write me in New York the outcome of
the case, we shook hands warmly and parted. He wrote me twice, and the
following year I returned to Europe and met Amstel at Brussels. We had a
very delightful time together, during which he told me the sequel of the
Van Tromp episode. Instead of one, the Countess had two husbands living;
but the Van Tromps preferred to buy off the woman at a good round sum
rather than have a public scandal.

Amstel interviewed the Countess, and gave her the choice between arrest
and a full release of all claims on the Van Tromp property for the sum
of 100,000 gulden. She made a hard fight, but at last gave in
gracefully. But my chapter has grown too long already, and I will close
it with the remark that I myself met the lady at Wiesbaden in 1871, and
became acquainted with the brilliant adventuress. She will appear again
in the sequel.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE MERRY SUMMER OVER AND NO HARVEST STORED.


From Cologne to Frankfort is about 140 miles, and swiftly our train sped
along up the Rhine--the lovely stream about which poets have raved for
twenty generations. What classic ground! What scenes have its waters
reflected, its mountains looked upon! In the old days its rolling floods
made a deep impression on the stout Roman heart. More than one army,
carrying with it the hearts of the Roman world, had crossed that river
and plunged into the unknown forests beyond, only to go down in the
shock of conflict with the brave but barbarian foe, leaving not one
solitary survivor to carry back tidings to Rome of the fate of her army.
And down through all the linked centuries the history of the Rhine has
been the history of giant armies marching against each other, and of
brothers slaughtering brothers. To-day the plains of Germany and France
bear a million of armed men, ranged face to face, with only the Rhine
between, eagerly awaiting the signal to pour a deadly rain on each
other. And for what?

The last face that I saw at the Cologne station was that of Amstel, lit
up with smiles as he waved his hand in adieu. Sitting cozily in the
corner of the carriage, eager to see all that was to be seen, I found,
as all tourists do, much to charm and delight. But my thoughts were on
the bonds I had to sell, and I was glad enough when at 5 o'clock our
train drew into the depot at Frankfort.

Alighting I took a cab and drove to the Hotel Landsberg, and, although
tired, the scenes and surroundings were too novel for me to think of
sleep. So I dined and went out to view the city, but as I will have
occasion to refer to the place again, I will leave any description of it
until another chapter.

In London there was an American banking house that has since failed, but
which at this time was doing a large business in the way of issuing
letters of credit. The firm was patronized chiefly by Americans. It
issued credits, or letters of credit, without inquiry, to any one
applying for them. While in London I called at their office, 449 Strand,
and paying $750 was given a credit for L150, which I took under an
assumed name. I wanted this letter to serve as an introduction to some
of the bankers at Frankfort, and to open the way for the negotiation of
the bonds. The Frankfort correspondents of the London firm were Kraut,
Lautner & Co., on the Gallowsgasse. The next morning I repaired to the
office of this firm, and producing my letter was very cordially
received, and invited to make my headquarters in their office during my
stay at Frankfort, which for the next day or two I did. However, I
called on several other bankers, also feeling the way, and finally
selected the firm of Murpurgo & Wiesweller, bankers widely known and of
enormous wealth. I had several talks with Murpurgo, and told him I was
arranging to purchase a number of copper mines in Austria, and if the
deal was closed I should sell a large block of American bonds and use
the cash I realized to pay for the purchase of the mines. I suppose he
thought to make a good thing out of it, and was eager to purchase.

My reader will recall that payment upon all United States bonds payable
to bearer, as mine were, could not be stopped, and so far as the
innocent holder was concerned he was perfectly secure. But the custom
among bankers was, whenever any bonds were lost by theft or fraud, to
send out circulars containing the numbers, asking that the parties
offering them might be questioned and held. But as American bonds were
sold in millions all over the Continent, and were passing freely from
hand to hand, as a matter of fact, little or no attention was paid to
such circulars, but, of course, had strangers of disreputable appearance
offered bonds in large sums, the lists might have been scrutinized and
awkward questions asked. Therefore I felt a trifle nervous, and
determined to run no chance of losing my bonds--at least not all of
them. So I resolved to go to Wiesbaden, some fifteen miles away, stop at
some hotel under a different name, leave the bonds there, and take the
morning train for Frankfort, conduct my negotiations, and return to
Wiesbaden every evening. It was at this time easy to lose one's identity
in Wiesbaden, for the town then was, along with Baden-Baden, the Monte
Carlo of the Continent, and adventurers, men and women, from all over
Europe flocked there in thousands to chance their fortune in the
gambling halls. Although a little in advance of this portion of my
history, I will here relate an adventure of mine there, some years after
the period of which I am speaking.

I will, however, preface my narrative with a brief account of the
history of the place. The city of Wiesbaden, previous to the
Franco-German war of 1870, was the chief town of one of those petty
principalities which were plentifully sprinkled over the face of Europe.
Since the old Roman days the town had been famous for its hot springs,
and consequently for its hot baths, and a good many people--during the
Winter particularly--resorted there to bathe and to drink the waters. As
a matter of course, the townspeople, as the custom of such places is,
have recorded many a marvelous cure, ranging all the way from headache
to hydrophobia. But still the town was of little importance save
locally. The petty ruler, with a title longer than his income, lived in
the pretentious castle, beguiling the time by smoking cheap cigars or
ordering on banquets whose piece de resistance consisted of Gebratene
Gans und Kartoffeln, the unlucky bird being tribute in kind from the
farmyard of some peasant subject living in a miserable hut on black
bread.

But a change was impending. A mighty wizard had visited the place, with
an eye quick to see the possibilities of the situation, with a brain to
plan and a hand to execute. His name was Francois Blanc, the head of the
great gambling establishment at Homburg. Vast as were his ambition and
achievements, he was a man of the simplest tastes.

To see him--as I often have--in his seedy coat, his old-fashioned
spectacles on the tip of his nose, one would have taken him for a
country advocate whose wildest dreams were of a practice of two thousand
thalers a year, with an old gig and wheezy mare to haul him around the
country side from client to client. Before his Wiesbaden days he had
been the guiding spirit in the direction of the splendid gambling halls,
the Casino at Homburg. Blanc was impervious to flattery; a hard-headed,
silent man, a man without enthusiasm and without weaknesses, who kept a
lavish table and ate sparingly himself, who had a wine cellar rivaling
that of the Autocrat of All the Russias and yet contented himself with
sipping a harmless mineral water; who kept and directed a huge gambling
machine--a mighty conglomeration of gorgeously decorated halls, wine
parlors and music rooms, crammed day and night by giddy and excited
throngs, but himself never indulging in anything more exciting than an
after-dinner game of dominoes or a quiet drive with his wife through the
country lanes.

Thus this Francois Blanc, with perfect equanimity, watched the thousand
thousands of butterflies and moths of society scorch their wings in the
terrific flame that glowed in his Casino, while he looked on, a cynical
observer, despising the fools enraptured with roulette and fascinated
with rouge-et-noir.

But one thing he was not afraid of, and that was spending money. To
compass his business ends he laid it out lavishly, and in the end he
drew all Europe to Wiesbaden. Still broader and still deeper he laid the
foundations of the fortune that ultimately grew to colossal proportions.
But he did not make Wiesbaden famous without keen opposition. He made
the fortune of the beggarly Prince Karl and the whole hungry crowd of
royal highnesses in spite of themselves. At every fresh opposition he
simply opened his purse and a golden shower fell on them.

It required a hard head to withstand the attacks made on him when it
became known that he had bought up both prince and municipality, and
proposed to make Wiesbaden par excellence the gambling city of the
Continent. But, despite of all, he pushed on his plans to wonderful
success. A great park was laid out and stately buildings arose, all
dedicated to the goddess of chance. Slim was the chance the votaries of
the game had in his gorgeous halls. He threw out his money in millions,
but he knew the weak, foolish heart of man, the egotism of each and
every one of us, that leads us to ignore for ourselves the immutable law
of numbers. So he counted upon his returns, and never counted in vain.

As I say, he had a hard head to withstand the attacks made upon him.
Every day the post brought hundreds of letters containing propositions
of threats from people who had lost their money and demanded its return
with fierce threats, pitiful supplications and warnings of intended
suicide, place, date and hour carefully specified, so there could be no
mistake, and more than one attempt was made upon his life. But the
equanimity of Francois Blanc was equal to all adventures. Threats,
prayers, temptations, left him untouched. This man of ice,
self-possessed, cold, indifferent to the ruin of the thousands of
victims of his will, had a fad or fancy. It was for raising red and
white roses, and while the mad throngs were fluttering in frenzy around
the tables in his halls at Homburg, Wiesbaden and Monte Carlo, he, hoe
or trowel in hand, would be training and transplanting his roses,
solicitous over an opening bud or deploring the ravages of an insect;
or, again, refusing all invitations, would sit down with his wife to a
dinner of boiled turnips and bacon, washed down with a glass of Vichy
water and milk. This was the town and these the scenes constantly
occurring there.

Now for my adventure. In 1870, just before the war cloud burst, covering
all that part of the world, I was stopping for some weeks at the Hotel
Nassau. It stands in the main street, opposite the park gate leading to
the Casino. All the world went to Wiesbaden to be amused. However
fashionable frivolity and vice may be elsewhere, here it was strictly de
rigueur, and to pretend to decency and sobriety would be to stamp one's
self a heathen and barbarian, all unversed in the glorious
flower-wreathed Primrose Way of our orb.

The daily routine for the throng began with coffee in bed at 8 a.m.,
then dressing gowns were donned, and the bath in underground floors of
the hotel were sought and a bath had in the hot mineral waters, which
were conducted to all the hotels direct from the hot springs of the
town. Half an hour in the bath, then a light breakfast, preparatory to
sallying out for an hour on the Spaziergang around the Quellen to drink
the water, listen to the band, see and be seen, but, above all, to
gossip and tell lies. At 11 a.m. the gambling began in the Casino, and
with a rush the seats around the tables would be filled. Then speedily
there would be rows behind rows of eager players or spectators, and what
a sight it all was to the cool-headed observer.

With what keen interest all watched the result of the first turn of the
card at the card tables and the color of the first hit at roulette. For
all gamblers are superstitious, and are devout believers in omens. Those
whose luck or pocketbooks held out gambled steadily on, or, if luck
turned against them, would leave the table, go to do some fantastic
thing to change their luck and then return. At 2 p.m. the band (a very
fine one) played in the Musik Saal, and most of the idlers and morning
players gathered there to listen to the music and to drink and dine.
Here in this hall the intrigues begun on the promenade or in the
gambling-rooms were helped along by the ample opportunities of meeting,
with the passions stimulated by the music and the wine. At 4 o'clock
many took an afternoon nap. Then came the chief event of the day, the
ponderous table d'hote. At 9 p.m. every one flocked to the Casino, and
the game went merrily on until midnight. Then to bed, each and all with
more or less Rudesheimer or Hochheimer stowed away.

At the time of which I speak many were my idle days, in which I was free
to seek pleasure. I used to find much enjoyment in frequenting the
Casino to watch the people and to play the role of "looker-on in
Vienna," which, by the way, is a star role and therefore rather
agreeable. One evening while watching the rouge-et-noir I noticed a lady
just in front of me, magnificently dressed in all, save that there was
an entire absence of jewelry. She was literally dressed to kill, and,
although near 50, yet to the casual observer she seemed no more than 40,
or even less. She was a well-preserved woman of the world, and was known
as the Countess de Winzerole. This was the adventuress who had married
Van Tromp some two years before. What a career had been that of this
woman!

She had been mistress from first to last of a dozen men, noblemen,
diplomats, soldiers, but being an inveterate gambler, one after another
saw, with dismay, the cash, estates, diamonds, carriages, costly furs
and laces he showered upon her all go whirling into the ever-open maw of
the Casino, or in the drawing-room games of the bon-ton in Paris or
Petersburg. One brave youth, an officer in the Prussian Guards, had, in
his infatuation for the Countess, and impregnable, as he thought,
against bankruptcy by reason of his great fortune, tried to satisfy her
cravings for splendor of entourage and her infatuation for gambling. The
result was that one day the crack of a pistol-shot was heard in the
Countess' chamber, and the servants rushing in found the young bankrupt
dead, lying across the bed, with a bullet through the heart. The next
day a horde of clamorous creditors besieged the house, where the
Countess calmly told them she had sent for her bankers and on the morrow
they would be paid. That night his comrades buried their dead friend
with military honors. At midnight the cortege passed the hotel, and all
eyes watched the lovely Countess robed in white as she appeared, her
bosom heaving with emotion, while she waved a farewell to her dead
lover. Ten minutes later she fled through the back door and over the
garden wall, falling into the arms of another lover waiting there. He
himself did not go the way of the last, but half of his fortune did; so
one morning, leaving a polite note of farewell, he, taking for companion
the dressing maid of his mistress, embarked for America.

At the time I met her the Countess' reputation was too well known and
her beauty too much fallen off for her to make any more grand catches. A
local banker at Wiesbaden became very friendly. However, the friendship
lost all its warmth when the banker's stout wife one day caught them
together, and having already provided herself with a whip in
anticipation, visited them both with a jealous woman's rage and a sound
thrashing.

Now, the Countess spent her time around the tables, following the
winners and getting douceurs from them. These were by no means
small--most of them being gifts pure and simple, given from mere
goodness of heart or sheer prodigality for there were too many gay and
beautiful women flocking around ready to smile on winners in the game
for the Countess now to make even a temporary conquest. However, at
this period she lived well--even extravagantly--but, of course, saved
nothing. As related, I first met the Countess here at the table where
the game was going on. She had just staked and lost her last gulden. She
was betting on the black, and four times in succession the red had won.
She turned, and looking in my face, implored me to bet a double
Frederick on the red. I instantly placed the money on the red and won.
She begged me to transfer the stake to the black. I did so, and black
won. Placing her hand on the stake, she said: "Sir, leave it; black will
win again." Sure enough, it did. She seized the cash, $80, and handing
me a double Frederick, said in her most bewitching manner: "Oh, sir; be
generous and let me keep this!" I said: "Certainly, madame." She
promptly staked it, and in two turns of the cards it was gone.

We met several times the next few days, but merely bowed without
speaking.

One afternoon, entering the Musik Saal, I took a small table, and,
ordering a bottle of wine, sat down to listen to the music and watch the
throng. The Countess came in, and seeing me alone, came straight to me,
shook hands warmly and sat down. I, of course, invited her to have a
glass of wine. We soon finished that bottle and ordered another. We had
what was to me a most amusing talk. She was a character--had been
everywhere and spoke all the modern languages. She assured me that I was
a very charming gentleman. In paying my bill I incautiously displayed a
gold piece or two, and, seeing she was going to ask me to give her one,
I saved her the trouble by placing one in her hand. In time we became
quite good friends. Twice I paid her board bill in order to rescue her
wardrobe from the clutches of her landlord, and once I saved her from
the hands of an irate washerwoman. When, after a time, I left Wiesbaden,
I left her as gay, as prosperous and as extravagant as ever.

I did not see Wiesbaden again for over two years, but the second week
of January, 1873, found me there. The Prussian Government now ruled in
the town, and refused to renew the license of M. Blanc. It had expired
fourteen days before my arrival. What a change had fallen on the town!
The Casino was gloomy and cold, the gay crowds had fled. All the life
and movement of the street and promenade was forever a thing of the
past. I had located there simply as a precaution, disposing of large
amounts of bonds in Frankfort, fifteen miles away, and returning to
Wiesbaden each night. At this time I put up at the Hotel Victoria, near
the railroad station. One Saturday, going up to Frankfort rather late,
my business detained me until after dark. On reaching the station I
happened to look into the third-class waiting-room, and there I spied a
figure alone that looked familiar. I soon recognized the Countess. From
her appearance and surroundings it was plain that there was now no
wealthy lover at her beck and call. Because she looked so unhappy I gave
her a cordial greeting, which she returned rather wearily. It was very
cold, and I was clad in furs from head to foot; besides, I was,
apparently, on the full floodtide of fortune, having with me then a very
large sum of money, some of which she could have had for the asking.

I said: "Come, Countess; let us go together first class to Wiesbaden."
She replied that she lived at Bieberich, a small town on the Rhine, four
miles below Mayence, and four miles from Wiesbaden. As the train was
starting I bade her good-bye, but asked permission to call on her the
next day. She consented, giving her address as Hotel Bellevue.

The next morning was very cold, but I enjoyed that, so, after a light
breakfast, I started over the hills for a walk to the town, arriving
there soon after noon. I found the hotel, a fifth-rate one, and
entering, was shown to the room of the Countess. What a change for her
from the past! Her room was a small one, plastered, but unpapered, and
with a few articles of furniture of the cheapest. The poor woman was
too evidently in a state of frightful depression, and well she might be.
Hers had been a butterfly existence, life all one Summer holiday, no
hostages given to fortune, no bond taken against future wreck or change.
Like the butterfly, she had roamed from flower to flower, sipping the
sweet only, or, like the cricket, had merrily piped all the Summer
through, thinking sunshine and bloom eternal. Even when youth and beauty
had fled, and lovers no longer stood ready to attend and serve, she
still found a good aftermath in her happy harvest field on the floors of
the Casino, but when the Casino lights at Wiesbaden went out, then, for
the Countess, had the Winter indeed come.

My walk had given me something of an appetite, and it now being 2
o'clock I at once proposed to have dinner. To my surprise she said she
had already dined, and upon my remarking that it was early for dinner,
she replied that it was, but as she was owing quite a hotel bill she
feared to give any trouble lest the landlord might present his bill, and
in default of payment she was liable to arrest and a very considerable
imprisonment. I need hardly tell my readers that they do these things
differently in Germany than with us. I could easily afford to be
generous with other people's money, and did not mean to see the Countess
suffer for a hotel bill. Ringing the bell, I told the waiter to bring me
some dinner and a bottle of wine. The Countess looked very uneasy over
my order. Of late years she had seen life from the seamy side and had
observed so much of the falseness and cruelty of men that she had
apparently lost all faith in them, and no doubt thought me an
adventurer, one who might possibly dine and order expensive wines,
leaving her to face an angry landlord. While dinner was being prepared
she told me she was in the greatest distress; had not even a single
kreutzer to pay postage, and, worst of all, was owing for two weeks'
board. She had no means to fly, no place to fly to, and if she remained
incarceration awaited her. She had for weeks been writing everywhere to
every one she had known, former lovers, distant, but long-neglected
relatives. The result--dead silence; no response from anywhere. She at
last was alone, caught in the world's great snare, with no friendly hand
to shelter or save. It was a sight to read this woman's face. There
swept over it all the conflicting waves of regrets over might-have-beens
and the gloomy shades of despair. Both proprietor and waiter appeared to
set the table; it was for one, but wineglasses for two were brought
unsolicited. They were officiously anxious to please "Your Highness," as
they christened me. The Countess sat looking gloomily out of the window
across the Rhine, while I watched her face until an infinite pity for
the shipwrecked soul filled my mind. Dismissing the waiter I went to the
window, and standing by her chair I said: "Don't worry any more,
Countess; I will pay your bill." At the same time drawing from an inner
pocket a book crammed with notes, I placed seven 100-thaler notes in her
lap, saying: "This one is for your board bill, and the other six are for
your pocket money." I need not attempt to picture her amazement and
delight. Certainly she appeared very grateful. We had a long
conversation and I was talking to her like a brother. Perhaps had she
still been beautiful and young my manner and language might have been
less brotherly. I told her she had danced and sung, but at last the time
had come for toil, and suggested she should go to Brussels, which is
ever thronged with tourists, where her knowledge of languages and her
savoir faire could be made available in one of the many shops where
gimcracks are sold to travelers. I advised her to offer a small premium
for a position. This she said she would do.

In saying good-bye I promised to see her again the next night, but I
found a telegram awaiting me on my arrival at my hotel which called me
to meet two of my companions at Calais, and I was forced to leave by an
early train. The next time I saw the Countess was at Newgate. She
visited me there, and was in perfect despair over my position and her
inability to serve me. For those who may care to know more of her, I
will say that, following my advice, she went to Brussels and obtained a
position in a Tourist Exchange and within a year married the proprietor,
who was a Councilman and a man of considerable local importance. She
made him a good wife and became a true mother to his five daughters.
When he died he made her guardian to both of them and his wealth. She
became very religious, and to the last was a devout member of the Roman
Church. She died in 1886, thirteen years after the episode at Rieberich.
Her ashes rest in the little graveyard of the Convent des Soeurs de Ste.
Agnes, on the Charleroi road, two miles from the city, and on her
monument is engraved:

     TO ELIZABETH, The Beloved Wife, Pious and True. She Served God and
     Has Gone to Live with the Angels

[Illustration: "THE LOVELY COUNTESS WAVED A FAREWELL TO HER DEAD
LOVER."--Page 81.]




CHAPTER IX.

"WE HAVE ANOTHER JOB FOR YOU."


About every second day I called on Murpurgo & Weissweller in Frankfort,
and talked over matters, and easily saw that everything would go right.
All that was necessary was to produce the bonds, and they would hand
over the cash. Here in America, though we scrutinized a man's garments,
the quality and fit of the same having a certain value, we never take
much stock in a stranger because an artist tailor has decorated him, or
because he has plenty of money. But in the seventies, all over Europe,
from the mere fact that a man was an American and had the appearance,
dress and manner of a gentleman, they always took it for granted that he
must be a gentleman.

Therefore, seeing that I was taken for a capitalist, and that no
question would be asked, I told the firm my deal in Austrian copper
mines appeared so certain to be completed that I had ordered the
securities I intended to dispose of to be forwarded from London. Giving
them a list, they gave me a memorandum offer for the lot. I accepted
their offer. The next hour was a very bad sixty minutes for me. There
was considerable delay, and my suspicions were fully aroused, and at one
time I thought they had made some discovery; but, as a fact, my
suspicions were wholly unfounded.

The banker and clerks were simply hurrying around, anxious to oblige me
and have the money out of the bank before it closed. At last the amounts
were figured up and verified by myself. One of the partners hastened
off to the bank and in five minutes returned with a very pretty parcel
of 200,000 gulden; but, in spite of the evident safety of the business,
I was nervous, and resolved to put a good distance between me and the
town as speedily as possible. Before 5 o'clock I was in Weisbaden, and,
going directly to the Casino, where they kept at all times a million
francs, in addition to German money, and where the possession of large
sums attract no attention, I readily exchanged my money for 350
one-thousand-franc notes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Going to Rothschild's, I bought exchange on New York for $80,000, and
left the same night for London. Very many times I journeyed over that
route in after years, but never with so light a heart. I was young and
enthusiastic; all the glamour and poetry of life hung around me, while I
was too inexperienced to notice whither I was drifting, or to understand
the powerful current upon which I had embarked. In fact, I had sold
myself to do the devil's work, and day by day the chain would tighten,
while all the time I thought I could when I pleased stop short on the
downward grade and take the back track. More experience would have
taught me that every one who forsook the path of honor not only thought
the same, but had a purpose to even everything up some day and make
restitution. And to-day there is not a criminal but who, at the start,
looks forward to the time when he will no longer war against society,
but will go out and come in at peace with all men. But when one comes to
think of it, what a fool's game is that of a man who fights against
society!

[Illustration: "THEY FOUND A BODY, RAGGED, EMACIATED, FORLORN. IT WAS
BREA."--Page 120.]

The criminal has but two arms, very short and weak they are, and of
flesh, too. He has but two eyes that cannot possibly see around the
nearest corner, while society has a million arms of steel that can reach
around the world, and a million eyes which are never closed, that can
pierce the thickest gloom with sleepless vigilance. The poor, unhappy
criminal, by fortunate dexterity, may escape for a little, but at last
society lays her iron grasp on him, and with giant force hurls him into
a dungeon. As for the short-lived, tempestuous success that some few
criminals have, is there any sweetness in it? I say no; success won in
honest fight is sweet, but I know from my own experience that the
success of crime brings no sweetness, no blessing with it, but leaves
the mind a prey to a thousand haunting fears that make shipwreck of
peace.

There were no sleeping cars in all Europe then, so I sat up in a
compartment and really enjoyed the ride, viewing the country by
moonlight. At midnight we arrived at Calais, and took the boat for
Dover. Then the express for London. Arriving at Victoria Station I took
a cab to Mrs. Green's, where I had breakfast a l'anglaise.

I had a little adventure that night going down the Strand. At Bow
street, on the corner, is the "Gaiety," a famous drinking saloon,
flooded with light inside and out, with more than a half-dozen handsome
barmaids. Barmaids are a great institution in England--that is, they
have never more than one man behind a bar, none at all in the railway
bars. And a fearful source of ruin to the girls, as they are to
thousands of young men--I might say tens of thousands every year. These
girls are chosen for their beauty and attractiveness. Yearly, in London
and in other large cities of England, a "Beautiful Barmaid Show" is one
of the stated features, and is held in some public garden or monster
hall. These exhibitions are wonderfully popular, and thousands flock to
them. Various beauty contests are got up, and all the popular features
of voting, etc., are in vogue. Those of the young women who win the
prizes make their fortunes, for they are at once engaged at high
salaries for the more aristocratic barrooms. Fancy what an attraction
and even fascination the gin palace with lovely girls behind the bar
must have to the youth of a great city. Many of them strangers, busy
during the day, but with nothing to do at night, with the choice of the
street or a sombre room, but sure of a sweet smile of welcome from a
fascinating woman in the barrooms. How easily and how naturally, too,
does a young man become ensnared. But how if he has no money? No smiles
and no welcome for him! And then what a temptation to help himself to
his master's cash!

Happy for our country that our laws forbid women entering that
occupation!

While standing in the brilliant light of the Gaiety, watching the
thronging crowd of passers-by, with its sprinkling of unfortunates, I
saw one poor, bedraggled creature, wan-faced and hollowed-eyed, with
hunger and despair imprinted on every feature. Looking sharply at her
she caught my eye, and, crossing the street, she spoke to me. The poor
thing looked as if she had been dragged through all the gutters of
London. She said that herself and her baby were actually starving--that
her husband had been out of work thirteen weeks and had then deserted
her, owing twelve weeks' rent, and the landlady had just told her that
unless she paid her some rent before 9 o'clock that night she would be
turned out with her baby into the streets.

Those of my readers who have been in London know something of what it
would mean for this woman to be turned out into the streets of that
fearful Babylon. No wonder, then, the poor soul was frantic with
despair. In her poverty a shilling looked as big as a cartwheel, and
when I said to her: "Will you promise to go direct home if I give you a
sovereign?" she cried out: "Oh, sir, God forever bless you if you will!"
I gave her the $5, and as she started to run I caught her by the sleeve
and said: "I will go home with you to see if you have told me the
truth." She lived close by, in one of those teeming courts that run off
from the Strand. We found her baby naked on a heap of rags, in a small,
dirty room, containing two broken chairs for furniture. I felt that
there were in the large city thousands of similar cases, but this one
was brought home to me. I was young and impressionable--more than that,
I had other people's money to be liberal with; so I called up the
landlady, who, almost dumb with surprise, received the arrears of rent,
along with a month in advance. Eliza, for that was her name, told me she
could get work if she had clean clothes for herself and baby, which she
could buy for L2. I gave her five, and giving her my address in New
York, told her to find work and let me know how she got on. She did find
work in an eel-pie shop in Red Lion Square, High Holborn. I saw her two
years later in London, and possibly may refer to her again in this
story.

       *       *       *       *       *

I went down to Liverpool and embarked on the good ship Java. Ten days
later we sailed through the Narrows.

During my last day in London I went to Westminster Abbey, and spent
three hours in that Valhalla of the Anglo-Saxon race. It made a
tremendous impression upon my mind. In no other work of human hands do
the spirits of so many departed heroes linger, certainly in no other
does the dust of so many of the great dead rest, and as I read memorial
upon memorial to departed greatness I realized that the path of honor
and of truth was the only one for men to tread. All through the voyage
the influences of the Abbey were upon me; I felt I was treading on
dangerous ground, and resolved I would have no more of it. Would I had
then resolved, when I met Irving & Co., to throw all the plunder in
their faces and say: "I'll have none of it, and here we part!" I felt
that I ought to do that, but weakly said: "I need the $10,000, and I'll
give the rogues their share and then see them no more." I had fully made
up my mind to that, knowing Irving would be on the wharf, eager to meet
me.

In sailing through the Narrows and past Staten Island I was making up my
mind as to the little speech I would make. We rapidly neared the wharf
in Jersey City, and I quickly recognized Irving standing on the edge of
the closely packed crowd, watching the steamer with a nervous look on
his face. A rogue suspects every one, and although by this time he had
become pretty well satisfied as to my good faith, no doubt he would be
happier when he had his share of the plunder safe in his pocket. I was
standing close to the rail between two ladies, and saw Irving before he
saw me. Waving my handkerchief, his eye suddenly fell on me. With a
smile and pointing significantly to my pocket, I gave him a salute. An
eager look came into his face, and waving his hand he cried out: "I am
glad to see you!" and no doubt he spoke the truth. When the gangplank
was thrown ashore, and I saw him making his way toward it, evidently
intending to board the steamer, I thought how surprised he would be when
I told him I would have no more of his game. He sprang on board, rushed
to me with a beaming face, grasped my hand, and putting the other on my
shoulder, led me toward the gangway. He had not spoken yet, but as we
were going down the gangplank he said: "My boy, you have done
splendidly," and then, putting his mouth close to my ear, whispered: "We
have got another job for you, and it's a beauty!"

I don't mean to pester my reader with a moral, or by too much
moralizing, although I am tempted to do so. There is ample material for
a course of sermons in that "we have another job for you" coming to me
just then. But, leaving my reader to draw his own moral, I must go on
with my narrative.

Going up the wharf with Irving, I was on the point of telling him I
wanted no more jobs, but weakly put it off, and by so doing, of course,
made it more difficult. He told me Stanley and White were waiting at
Taylor's Hotel on Montgomery street, a few doors up from the wharf. We
soon were there, and they gave me a warm and even enthusiastic
reception. Then I began to tell some of my adventures on the journey, to
which they listened with unfeigned admiration, and, opening my bag, I
produced the sixteen bills of exchange for $5,000 each, informing them
they should have their cash in ninety minutes. It was curious to see
these men handle the bills of exchange, passing them from one to
another, examining them with anxious care. But where were my good
resolutions, and what had become of them? Why, they, under the effect of
the wine and the magnetic influence of these three minds, had gone
flying down the bay, and under a favorable gale were fast speeding
seaward beyond the ken of mortal eye, not to be found by me again until
years after, when, with the toils about me, I found myself in Newgate.
Then the fugitives all came back, this time to stay.

My three graces who adorned the Police Department of New York were full
of matter of a new enterprise, which by my co-operation was to make the
fortunes of us all. But they were too evidently anxious, too eagerly
desirous to handle the greenbacks my bills of exchange represented, to
fix their minds upon anything else.

Stanley and White went away together, but first each once more told me
privately that he depended upon me to put in his own hands his share,
showing how these rogues suspected each other, and, indeed, were full of
suspicions of every one and every thing. Irving crossed the ferry with
me, but on the New York side dropped behind, and, although I paid no
more attention to him, no doubt he followed me. The excitement of
success and of being at home again banished any possible regrets or
fears over the course I had entered, and with a light heart and buoyant
step I quickly made my way to a friend of mine, a well-known broker in
New street, shook hands with him, and, telling him, very much to his
surprise, that I had just returned from Europe, asked him to step around
the corner to the office of the bankers and identify me. In a minute we
were there. Indorsing the drafts, I told them to make it in
five-hundreds; they sent out to the bank for them, and I was speedily on
my way to our rendezvous with 160 $500 greenbacks in a roll, and meeting
the three at the wineroom I made their eyes grow big when I flashed the
roll on their delighted orbs. The division was speedily made, I
retaining $10,000 for my share, and each promptly threw out a thousand,
and we shook hands all around and parted.

Here were four conspirators of us, and it was comical to see how anxious
we all were to get away so that each could stow his plunder in a safe
place. For my part I went home, but I shall say nothing of the meeting
with the members of my family. I told them I had made a lot of money in
a speculation, and not knowing the inside history, or suspecting
anything, they rejoiced with me and were proud and happy for their boy.
I spent about a thousand dollars making things comfortable for them, but
to their grief I told them that circumstances required me to take up my
former quarters at the St. Nicholas.

It would be interesting to tell of my reception among my acquaintances
on Wall street and other parts of the city. Rumor magnified my
resources, and it was reported I had cleared a hundred thousand dollars
in some fortunate deal. It was strange to see the new-found deference
all around, from my former employers down to my old waiter at downtown
Delmonico's, where I dined; but I will pass over all these matters and
proceed with my history of the Primrose Way.

The next few days I went about engaged in the to me very agreeable task
of paying all my debts. The largest debt I was owing was one of $1,300,
partly borrowed money and partly a long-standing balance due on a
speculation negotiated on my account, and which did not pan out, but
entailed a loss. Then I indulged pretty freely in many little
extravagances in the way of tailor bills, etc. Two friends struck me for
a loan, and, strange to say, both remain unpaid to this hour, along with
some twenty-five years' interest. So, within a fortnight of my landing I
found my $13,000 reduced quite one-half, and as I was cherishing visions
of unbounded wealth, I began to feel quite poor, and anxious to see some
outcome to this "other job" my friends said they had ready for me. It
was at the very door.

[Illustration: MANSION HOUSE, ILLUMINATED.]




CHAPTER X.

A NINETEENTH CENTURY PRODIGAL.


Let no man who may be tempted to commit a crime ever fancy that if he
takes the first step down hill he will stop until he reaches the bottom.
If one of my readers flatters himself he can go one step, with no more
to follow, on the downward road, let such an one read this story to the
end and then forever abandon such an idea as a fancy born of
inexperience. For this history is as a handwriting on the wall, full of
warning to all and every one who may be tempted to take one step in any
other path than the path of honor.

In 1865 there lived in London a famous Queen's Counsel, Edwin James.
Fame and fortune were his. A born orator, a talented scholar, he rapidly
pushed his way from the very bottom of the legal profession to all but
its topmost height. At 40 he found himself facile princeps of the
English Bar, and public opinion, that potent factor in popular
government, had already singled him out for the high position of
Attorney-General. That secured, only one step remained to place him in
the seat of the Lord Chancellor. Truly, an imperial position--one that
satisfied the proud ambition of a Wolsey and fitted the genius of a
Thomas a Becket. It carries with it the position of keeper of the
conscience of Her Majesty, giving the possessor precedence in all
official functions over the English aristocracy, next to royalty itself.

But about this time dark whispers began to fly about through the clubs
of London. Soon it became known that Edwin James, the Lord Chancellor
to be, was in the toils, and it shortly transpired that, in spite of the
fact that his income from his profession was nearer twenty than ten
thousand pounds per annum, it had proved insufficient and he was heavily
in debt, and worse.

It would seem he was keeping up what in the polite language of society
are known as dual houses. A woman of brilliant beauty presided over one,
and the marvelous beauty of its mistress was only equaled by her
extravagance. He also had a fondness for associating with younger men
than himself, and had got into a particularly fast set of young lords
and army men. At his club he had lost large sums at baccarat and loo,
and, in an unhappy hour for himself and his, he stooped from his high
position and--miserable to think of--committed a crime. This, in the
expectation that he would relieve himself from some of the more crushing
obligations he had heaped upon himself, either through the extravagant
vagaries of his imperious mistress, or by his own rashness in trying his
luck among a lot of titled sharpers. He had among his clients one fast,
even madly extravagant youth, heir of an historic name and of a lordly
estate. To supply his extravagance "my lord" had applied to the money
lenders--those sharks that in London, as elsewhere, fatten on such game.
These gentry were eager to lend the young blood money upon what are
known in English law as post-obits, which loans in this particular case
carried the trifling interest of about 100 per cent. per annum. James
was cognizant of his friend's excursions among the money lenders, and no
doubt he thought the young spendthrift, when he came into his fortune,
would never know within a good many thousands how much he had borrowed,
nor even the number of post-obits he had given.

I will just explain that a post-obit is a form of note or due bill given
by the heir of an estate (usually of an entailed estate), which matures
the moment the drawer of the document enters into that estate. That is
to say, the tender-hearted son discounts his father's death to provide
fuel to feed his flame. So Edwin James, driven to his own destruction,
stooped from his imperial position into what one might call ankle-depth
of crime.

How little he dreamed there was a beyond--a huge, seething sea of crime;
an ocean whose billows are of ink, and which would soon sweep him from
his high place into the black waters, there to be buffeted until, honor
and hope all gone, he would, throwing his hands to heaven, with one
despairing cry, sink into its inky depths, adding one more ruined life
to the millions already engulfed. In that long, sad catalogue of the
dead there is probably not one, who, when taking the first step into
crime, ever thought a second would follow the first.

But to come back to our gilded sir. He made out two post-obits for
L5,000, wrote his client's name at the bottom of each, gave them to the
money lenders, who, never doubting that the prodigal son had signed and
given them to his counsel, made no question, but gave James the money
for them at once. But James had reckoned without his host, for this
nineteenth century prodigal was made of keener metal than he of the
first. Strange to say, and utterly unexpected as it was to all who knew
him and had looked upon his riotous living, he kept his books straight,
and knew to a single guinea how much and to whom he was owing.

His discovery of the forgery was accelerated by the sudden and most
unexpected death of his father, his return home and stepping into his
estate.

The various post-obits were presented and placed before him. He
instantly pronounced the two for five thousand pounds each to be
forgeries, and the crime was easily laid at the door of the Queen's
Counsel. The heir indignantly refused to condone the offense, and,
revealing the fatal secret to a few, within a month it was known in
every clubroom in London. From there it got into the newspapers, and
they, under a thinly disguised alias of a "distinguished member of the
Bar," gave more or less accurate details of the damning truth. His
former client eventually said he would not prosecute the forgery if the
criminal left England; if not, he would immediately go before the Grand
Jury, procure an indictment, and have this man, who had moved a prince
among men, arraigned in the dock at the Old Bailey, there to plead and
stand trial like any common criminal.

And he fled. Of course, like all fugitives from justice throughout the
Old World, he looked to America for a city of refuge, and here he came.
Not to keep my readers too long from the main narrative, it will suffice
to say that soon after his arrival he applied for admission to the Bar
of New York, but first he won to his cause the high-souled Richard
O'Gorman, then a leader of his profession.

It was for Edwin James a lucky stroke, for at this time O'Gorman was in
full possession of his magnificent powers. Few could resist his magic.
His great heart was stirred, and he took up the cause of his friend as
if he had been his brother. The English lawyer's reputation was known to
every member of the Bar of New York, and there had been and still was a
bitter opposition to his admission; but when it became known that their
eloquent leader was his champion, many began to feel that after all "the
poor fellow ought to be given another chance," and when at the next
meeting of the Bar Association O'Gorman in a set oration brought all his
splendid eloquence into play the cause was won.

Great-hearted O'Gorman had helped this lame dog over the stile, but the
dog's heart was not in the right place, and, as my reader will see in
the sequel, he soon went lame again. * * *

       *       *       *       *       *

In the rear room of a somewhat luxurious range of offices in a building
on Broadway, facing the City Hall, four men were engaged in discussing
what was evidently an exciting topic. The door of the main office bore
the sign "Edwin James, Counselor-at-Law and Register in Bankruptcy." He
was one of the four. He had failed lamentably in his efforts to secure a
practice. The effects of O'Gorman's eloquence had in the gray light of
commonplace day faded away, the more so when the ideal his magic had
created in the minds of men was in hourly contrast with the man himself
and his history. His professional brethren looked upon him with
suspicion, and there was a general impression abroad that his escapades
were not over yet.

He had launched out in his office and home somewhat extravagantly, and
now, once again pressed by clamorous creditors, he had once more drifted
upon the borderlands of crime, and was here with his companions planning
a criminal transaction in order to pay his more pressing debts.

One of these four was Brea, who, with a keen eye to business, had
married the discarded daughter of a wealthy but not over-respectable New
York family, and he had, unsuspected, pulled the wires so that James had
been employed as the family lawyer, and in that capacity had drawn the
will of the mother. She was an imperious, hot-tempered body, one who,
when aroused, was accustomed to use language more vigorous than polite,
and who not infrequently went to fisticuffs with her daughters. The
husband and father, the creator of the fortune, was dead and the vast
family property, in securities, stocks and lands, was vested absolutely
in the mother. In the old lady's will Brea's wife, the second daughter
of the house (there were no sons), was down in the very first paragraph
for the magnificent sum of "one dollar lawful currency," and her name
nowhere else appeared in the lengthy document. The old lady was such a
termagant and so implacable in her hatreds that it was a moral certainty
she would never relent and change her purpose toward her daughter. But
James had also drawn up a second will of his own and Brea's
concoction, and a precious piece of villainy it was, in which the wife
was down for legacies amounting; to $750,000. The genuine will James
kept in his own possession, ready to destroy the very moment word came
that the old lady was an immortal, while the spurious will was kept in
the vaults of the Safety Deposit Company, there to remain until the
death of the testatrix, when, of course, it would in due time be
produced.

[Illustration: BANK OF ENGLAND PARLOR.]

Brea had been introduced to the other three men, and cultivated their
acquaintance in the belief that they would some day be useful to him. He
had a few days before introduced them to James. As a matter of
precaution he had concealed from them all knowledge of the will. At the
same time he gave them a hint that there was something in the wind, but
that some way must be found to secure at once a few thousands, enough
for a year or two, until the good time came when fortune was to lavish
her favors on them all with a liberal hand. But money must be had at
once, for Brea and James were in sore straits, particularly James, who
had been threatened with arrest, and was so far involved that he always
entered and left his house at night in order to escape importunate
creditors. This was James' second interview with the men, and the first
time he had been alone with them. He saw at once that he had to do with
able, clear-headed men, took them into his confidence, and, in order to
excite their hopes and to bind them to him as well, he confided to them
the plot of the forged will, producing the genuine for their inspection.
He assured them that it was a sure and speedy fortune, as the lady was
old and frail in health, and he also promised they should share between
them $100,000, provided they would stand by to give a hand in the
somewhat improbable event of the other heirs disputing the will, but
above all, if they would devise some means to furnish him at once
$10,000, or at least $5,000. Money he must have, and he could no longer
do without it.

The result of our conference in James' office was that the very next day
an office downtown was engaged under a fictitious name, and a simple,
unsuspicious fellow hired as porter and messenger. After some little
negotiation, we obtained particulars of parties banking with the then
great firm of Jay Cooke & Company, corner of Wall and Nassau streets.
Briefly told, the result was that four days later a messenger walked
into their banking house with a check for $20,000, purporting to be
signed by another firm, who banked with them. Along with the check went
a letter bearing a signature well known to the cashier, asking him to
pay the check to bearer. The result of all being that five minutes
thereafter we were walking unconcernedly up Broadway, and sending a
message to James to meet us at Delmonico's, corner of Broadway and
Chambers street, we sat down awaiting his arrival. He had anxiously been
looking for news, and almost before we had seated ourselves he entered,
eager and anxious-looking; but, when he glanced at our faces, a happy
expression came over his own, and without a word he put out his hand.
After a warm greeting, I produced the roll, and, to his delight, I
handed over to James ten five hundreds. On the morrow I went to the
office, and, paying my messenger a week's wages, besides making a small
gift, told him he need not come any more.

With this twenty thousand coup we fondly thought all our troubles and
all our unlawful acts were ended. We now had a few thousands, sufficient
to last until the $5,000 we had invested in the will case should bring
in a dividend that would mean a fortune for us all. So we took things
easy about town, and altogether thought ourselves pretty good fellows,
and this world a very good sort of place to be in.

Thus the Winter passed by and the Summer was at hand. Our thousands of
the year before had dwindled to hundreds, and the old lady whose heirs
we had constituted ourselves seemed to have renewed her youth, and
threatened to outlive us all.

Besides this there had grown up a repugnance in our minds to the
business, and when one day my friend Mac remarked it was a scoundrelly
business to rob the heirs of an estate, and they women, George and I
heartily acquiesced; and we vowed we would take no part in the matter,
and then and there resolved we would throw both James and Brea over, but
first to use Brea and James for our own purposes. Once more we found
ourselves planning a coup in Wall street. Talking the matter over, we
three soon had a plan, and, being dowered with intense energy, it
promised a successful termination. Audaciously enough we determined the
lightning should strike once more in the same place--that is, to make
Jay Cooke & Company again the victims. Irving and his honest fellows
were to co-operate by watching everything, and, if any arrest
threatened, to be on hand to make it themselves; and then let the
prisoner escape. Most important of all, when the bankers drove up in hot
haste to Police Headquarters to give information, James, Honest James,
would be on hand to receive them, would call in his two trustys to get
with him full particulars of the robbery and a description of the men.
Then the bankers would be sent away with assurances that "we know the
men and will have them," but at the same time warning them to keep the
matter a secret in order better to enable them to catch the villains.

If successful, the detectives were to receive 25 per cent. between them.
Our plan required James to play an important part, and, although no
confederacy could be fixed on him, yet he would hardly escape
questioning and a very considerable degree of suspicion, so much so that
it probably would put an end to any lingering remnants of character he
had on hand or in stock. But he was tired of America, and determined to
go to Paris with his share of the plunder. Our visits to James had
always been in his private office, and his clerks had never seen either
of us or Brea.

Our plan was to make use of James' office in a way that will appear
later. As related, he was suspected by his profession, but the general
public thought him a very great man. He had appeared as (volunteer)
counsel in two or three murder cases and had delivered powerful
addresses which had attracted considerable notice in the papers.

One day, soon after our plan was matured, Brea went to Philadelphia,
and, by a mixture of audacity and finesse, procured from Jay Cooke
himself (the parent house of the New York firm of Jay Cooke & Co. was in
Philadelphia) a letter of introduction to the manager of the New York
firm. He wanted the letter ostensibly in order to consult the manager
about certain investments which he, as executor of an estate, desired to
make for his wards.

The transaction was made to appear as one of considerable magnitude, in
which there would be large commissions paid. With the grand send-off of
a letter from Jay Cooke to his subordinate in New York, the speculation
opened well--so well that we at once decided what we would do with the
money when we got it--a case in point for the old proverb. We had
ascertained the name of a Newark manufacturer who had recently failed in
business. I will call him Newman. On the morning after his return from
Philadelphia, Brea presented himself at James' office--it being arranged
that James himself be out, so Brea told the clerk that his name was
Newman, that he had lately failed in business, and intended to employ
Mr. James to put him through the bankruptcy court. The clerk told him to
come again at 12, and he would find Mr. James in. At 12 he came; the
clerk introduced him. James kept the clerk conveniently near, that he
could hear the conversation. Brea, as Newman, told James he had used in
his business $240,000 belonging to his wife and her mother, and that in
scheduling his assets he proposed to use enough to make those amounts
good, intending to conceal the fact from his creditors. He determined to
invest the amount in bonds--so ran his story--and was going to deposit
the money in the bank that very afternoon, at the same time producing
his letter of introduction from Jay Cooke. All of this, of course, being
for the eye and ear of the clerk, who might be required as a witness of
his employer's good faith.

[Illustration: "MAC AND GEORGE WERE WITHOUT, AND WERE STRICKEN WITH
CONSTERNATION, FOR A MINUTE'S OBSERVATION OF THE GATHERING CROWD AND THE
RUSHING INTO THE BANK OF EXCITED PEOPLE CONVINCED THEM SOMETHING UNUSUAL
WAS IN THE WIND, AND THEY KNEW NOYES MUST BE IN DEADLY PERIL. MAC RUSHED
INTO THE BANK IN HOPE "TO WARN OR TO BE OF HELP."--Page 236.]

Brea-Newman also paid James, in presence of the clerk, a retaining fee
of $250, which was privately returned. James banked in Jersey City, and
when Newman said, "Introduce me at your bank, as I want a small credit
handy," James said, "My bank is in Jersey City." The clerk's brother was
paying teller at the Chemical Bank, and, as was expected, he at once
spoke up, saying: "Let me introduce Mr. Newman in the Chemical Bank," so
down went Newman and the clerk, and in ten minutes our man had the
Chemical Bank checkbook in his pocket and $5,000 to his credit in the
bank. The same afternoon he presented his letter of introduction at Jay
Cooke & Co.'s, and was cordially received. He, of course, told a totally
different story there. In this case a relative, lately deceased, had
left him an estate of great value. He was, he said, realizing on his
real estate, and buying bonds as fast as his money came in, and he
wanted to invest a million in various railway bonds. At present he had
$240,000 on hand, which he wanted to invest in Government bonds. He then
left for the time being, leaving a good impression, which his refined
manner and appearance confirmed.

So far all was well; that is, all was well from our point of view. The
next two or three days Brea paid several visits to the Chemical Bank,
getting small checks for $500 and $1,000 certified, and now had his
account drawn down to $1,000. The day before he had called on Jay Cooke
& Co. and told them he would take $240,000 in seven thirties, "Bearer"
bonds, and that he would call the next day and pay for them. At the
same time he got them to give him a proforma bill for them.

The eventful day had come, and James, to get his head clerk out of the
way, sent him to the Admiralty Court to take notes of the evidence in a
case going on there.

At 10 o'clock Brea sent a messenger with a note to the bankers,
requesting them to send the bonds to Edwin James' office, and he would
pay for them on delivery. He could not come himself, as he was in
consultation with the executors of the estate.

In the mean time a check for the full value of the bonds, $240,000, had
been made out. It was drawn on the Chemical Bank, and was, in fact,
similar to those always given between bankers on bond transactions.

Brea had drawn his own check for $240, and had it in his hatband with
the $240,000 dummy check. The plan is palpable enough. When the
messenger brought the bonds Brea, or Newman, was going to say: "All
right, I have the check here; bring the bonds and we will go to the
Chemical Bank and get them to certify my check." Then when at the bank
he would take out both checks, letting the messenger only get a glimpse
of one, and that would be the small $240 one, which Brea would pass in
through the window with a request to have it certified. This would be
done, and when handed out, of course, Brea was to change it and hand the
messenger the big one of home manufacture.

It seemed impossible for the scheme to fail, and success in it meant on
the surface comparative wealth for us all, with, perhaps, in the not
distant future an entrance through the McAllister-guarded portals of the
Four Hundred.

But here we have a vivid instance of how easily an elaborate scheme can
by the merest accident fall to pieces.

The night before the expected coup we met James for a final full-dress
rehearsal for the morrow, and after everything was settled adjourned to
the uptown Delmonico's for supper. It so happened that Detective George
Elder was there. This Elder was a bright fellow, was in a ring--but not
in our ring--and, of course, had his bank account, diamond pin and
turnout for the road. He had had some acquaintance with me, but the rest
of the party were strangers. I did not see him at the time, but it would
seem he was curious, even suspicious, from some scraps of conversation
he overheard. However, neither his curiosity nor suspicion would have
been of any consequence or concern to us had it not been that, in going
out, Brea left on the table with some papers the memorandum or pro forma
bill of the bonds given him the day before by the bankers. Strangely
enough, the body of the bill alone was intact. The heading bearing the
name of the firm and purchaser had been torn off and destroyed.

Elder picked it up and, having some vague suspicions of a plot
somewhere, he determined to go around among the hundred or more bankers
and brokers in and around Wall street and investigate quietly, without
making any report to his superiors, his immediate superior being, of
course, our honest friend, the worthy chief of the detective force, who
was anxiously looking for his percentage of the deal. The whole force
was split up into cliques, each intensely jealous of every other, each
with its own stamping grounds, and each strictly protected his own
preserves.

At 9:30 the next morning Elder started around carrying the fragment of
the memorandum he had picked up from bank to bank and from one broker to
the other. He had spent over an hour making inquiries, and walked into
Jay Cooke & Co.'s office just as the messenger was leaving with the
bonds for James' office. Fifteen minutes more and the game was ours!
Elder produced the memorandum, and they at once recognized it as their
own. Elder asked them if they knew their man and were sure it was all
right. They said it was perfectly right, that Mr. "Newman" had been
introduced by the head of the firm in Philadelphia, and was also a
client of Edwin James; but then it was strange the bill should be
mutilated. Elder averred his belief that a fraud was intended, and
suggested that he and the manager should accompany the messenger with
the bonds. This alarmed the manager, and he directed Elder and the
messenger to await his return. Seizing his hat, he started for James'
office to investigate. James was there, and Brea (the pseudo Newman) was
in the private office with the two checks ready, anxiously awaiting the
arrival of the messenger with the bonds.

Myself and all the other members of our party were nearby, watching and
awaiting developments. The manager, considerably perturbed, entered the
office, and James saw at once the business was a failure, for he knew,
of course, that any suspicion as to good faith would be fatal to the
success of the plot. Brea, hearing the voices and supposing it was the
messenger with the bonds, opened the door of the private office and was
vexed to see the manager, who, shaking him by the hand, told him the
bonds would arrive soon, at the same time saying: "I suppose you will
pay currency for the bonds?" To which Brea replied: "I will go to my
bank with you now and get my check certified for the amount and give it
to you, or leave it until the messenger comes with the bonds."

This offer, along with Brea's coolness, apparently disarmed all
suspicions, and he said: "Oh, all right, the messenger will go to the
bank with you." He left the office, but stopped in the hall for a
moment, then turned and hastily re-entering, said: "By the way, Mr.
Newman, please draw the currency from the bank, and pay the notes to the
messenger upon delivery of the bonds."

So the grand coup had failed, ignominiously failed, and through what
appeared a trivial accident. More such "accidents" at critical periods
will appear before this history is ended.

The dummy check was still in our hands, and was at once destroyed, so,
with nothing to fear, we coolly walked up Broadway to dinner, and talked
of the future over a bottle of wine. At last we fixed upon a definite
plan. Clinking our glasses, we drank to "Eastward, Ho!"

[Illustration: MERCHANTS EXCHANGE, ILLUMINATED.]




CHAPTER XI.

"CRACK THE LAWYER'S VOICE THAT HE MAY NEVER MORE FALSE TITLES PLEAD, NOR
SOUND HIS QUILLETS SHRILLY."


The Eastward Ho was a hint of a project we had frequently talked over as
a possible speculation. Here we see how men are led on step by step from
bad to worse when once they set out on the Primrose Way.

In returning from Europe with the $10,000 commission in my pocket, I
vowed never again to engage in any unlawful speculation. I was through!
No criminal life for me! Then came the day when we struck for the
$20,000 and won, and we were all happy in the thought that our last
unlawful deed was over.

Then we took the third step we had vowed never to take, and had
discussed the $240,000 project. We had spent money on it, had laid our
plans cunningly and deep, and were confident of success. We had even
planned how to invest our thousands in an honest business, and so win
the esteem of all good men, and, of course, in some happy future would
make restitution. But that is a future which never comes in the history
of crime. These three wrong steps had been taken only after convincing
ourselves that the circumstances justified each separate act.

Such is the contradiction of human nature that even when planning crime
we not only intended to make restitution, but despised all other
wrongdoers and reprobated their crimes. Each wrongful act of ours was
to be the last, and it was with something like despair that we began to
realize that there was no stopping place on the dangerous road we were
treading.

My $13,000 commission from the European trip had melted away. Our share
of the $20,000 got from Jay Cooke & Co. was fast going. Our deep-laid
plot to win $240,000 had miscarried, and now the necessity was upon us
of engaging in another illegitimate operation if we would continue in
our life of ease and luxury.

For the next few days we did little but dine and plan. Discussion
followed discussion, and through them all we clung to the general
proposition that we would not do any more in our particular line in
America. At last we resolved to go to Europe and realize the fortune
that seemed to elude our grasp at home.

We resolved to tell Irving in a general way that we were going to Europe
to make some money, and would pay him and his two fellows their
percentage. Then we could (apparently) work with impunity; for, of
course, if we committed a forgery in Europe and were recognised as
Americans--as probably we would be--the foreign police would report the
case to the New York police--that is, to Irving--and we should be safe
in New York.

Edwin James and Brea had dropped out of our lives for good, but as my
readers will be curious to know of their fate in after times, I will
relate it in this chapter.

The morning our scheme on Jay Cooke & Co. fell to pieces, as soon as the
manager left the office, telling Brea he was to pay cash for the bonds
in place of the check, it was recognized at once that the game was up,
and the only thing remaining was to shield James as much as possible. So
Brea left the office, but first instructed the clerk to tell the
messenger when he came that he had gone for the money, and would call
for the bonds. This was done, the messenger arrived, being accompanied
by Detective Elder all the time, and took the bonds back again.

At 2 o'clock James went down to the bankers, where he was well known,
and inquired for Mr. Newman. Being told he was not in, he said he had
made an appointment to meet him there. Invited into the inner office,
the manager asked him if he had any personal knowledge of this Mr.
Newman, and James said no further than that he had called and given him
a retaining fee of $250, and had engaged him as legal adviser, etc. Then
the manager produced a telegram he had received in answer to one he had
sent to the Philadelphia house, inquiring about Newman, and asking if
his letter of introduction was genuine or not. James read the reply; it
said the letter was genuine, but that they knew absolutely nothing about
the man, and warned him to be cautious. James pretended astonishment,
and feigned to be very indignant, declaring that if Mr. Newman did not
put in an appearance within half an hour he should begin to fear a fraud
had been attempted. When the closing hour came at 3 o'clock, the manager
announced to James that he should give the whole matter to the press,
but would keep his name out of it.

So they parted with warm congratulations over their escape, the manager
pretending to believe James was an innocent tool, but no doubt with a
shrewd suspicion that he intended to have a finger in this pie, had the
pie ever been baked and divided. Had the bankers been victimized they
would have striven with all their power to keep the fact a secret and
forbidden their employees to breathe a word about it to any one. But now
the case was different. All the morning papers had long accounts of the
transaction. They were absurdly inaccurate, but all agreed as to the
extreme cleverness of the manager, and noticed how he had suspected,
etc., while poor Elder, who both expected and really deserved all the
glory, was not even mentioned in the newspaper accounts. However, his
feelings were soon after solaced, as Irving informed us that Elder had
stood in on a deal that paid him well.

The $5,000 we gave James eased up matters for a time. Practice he had
none, but managed to hold on in the hope of realizing on the Brea will
matter, but getting deeper and deeper in debt. One night, four years
later, the old lady, Brea's mother-in-law, had a more than usually
furious outbreak of temper, and fell to beating the three daughters
still living with her. Before it was over she had attacked and seriously
injured the eldest, and then flew to her room in a passion. Not
appearing at breakfast the next morning her daughter went to her room,
but she was not there, and the bed was undisturbed. Going to the room
that served for office and library, they found the door, as usual,
locked. Bursting it open the poor old maids found their mother huddled
in a corner of the room dead.

Truly a happy relief for the daughters. Poor girls, theirs had been a
hard life. Every suitor who tried to cultivate their acquaintance had
been driven from the door by the mother, who never spent a dollar on
their education, and her death found them all unused to the ways of the
world. The result was that all became victims of fortune-hunters, and
the unhappy ladies only changed the tyranny of an unnatural mother for
the tyranny of a husband, who in each case wedded for wealth alone, and
all three husbands were uncultured men. What an experience! Two of the
three still live. How sweet the rest of the grave will be to them!

The genuine will was destroyed and the "family lawyer," James,
immediately after the funeral, produced and read "the last will and
testament" of the dead woman. The four sisters and a host of poor
relations were present at the reading. When Sarah, Brea's wife, heard
her name read as chief heir of the vast estate, she was stunned, but if
she was stunned, the rest of the family were paralyzed. Legacies were
left to many, small in amount, save in the case of the other three
sisters, who were to have a certain tenement and land in Harlem and
three thousand a year for life out of the estate. None of those present
thought for a moment of questioning either the genuineness of the will
or the validity of the testaments, save only a poor relation, a nephew,
whose name was down for $500. He was indignant with the old lady and
loudly declared that he would not put up with it. The next day he
employed a briefless lawyer, one that had wit and brass enough and who
had his way to make in the world, and was determined to make it.

Without waiting for the will to be probated or having legal authority to
do so, Brea and his wife, the very day of the funeral, moved into the
house and took possession. But before the week was out he had persuaded
the three old maids that they would be happier if away from the scene of
their parent's death, so he had them installed in their own house at
Harlem, he remaining in undisturbed possession, waiting only for the
will to be probated in order to take possession of upward of $200,000 in
cash and bonds still in the custody of the old lady's bank. He had full
possession of the house, and with entire confidence waited to be put in
legal possession of all. But little did he dream that at that moment
there was one poor torn sheet of foolscap in the library, casually
thrust in a book, lying completely at his mercy to destroy, if he could
only have known it, which was going to tear all his wealth from his
grasp and drive him forth a foiled plotter, to become an adventurer and
ultimately to perish a miserable outcast.

The executors of the will (the same in the forged will as in the
genuine) were two simple shopkeepers living near. Eagan was the name of
the nephew, and to the surprise of the executors his attorney notified
them he should contest the will on behalf of his client, and warned them
to dispossess Brea of the house until such time as the law decreed it
to be his wife's property. The attorney knew the standing of James in
his profession, and, being capable of pretty sharp practice himself, he,
by some extraordinary intuition, boldly asserted his belief that the
will was a forgery. The three sisters declared they would not contest
the will, and had Brea acted wisely by fixing it up to give the attorney
a liberal fee, and Eagan a paltry thousand dollars, it would have ended
there. But, feeling perfectly secure, no doubt he thought an appearance
of firmness would strengthen his position still more, and he was so rash
as to denounce the attorney as a shyster and blackmailer.

The attorney's blood was up; he frightened the sisters into supporting
him in disputing the will, and had Brea and his wife ousted from the
house and the sisters reinstalled. Brea then attempted negotiations with
the attorney. Cautious as he was, he said enough to convince the lawyer
that for some reason he did not want the case to come before the courts;
still the attorney was half inclined to join hands with Brea. In the
mean time Ezra (this was the name of the man of law) had acquired great
power over the sisters, and they all looked to him both as champion and
protector. He resolved to be protector to one, at least, paying
assiduous court to Jane, the youngest. Although past 30 and without
education or accomplishments, she was warm-hearted and extremely
sentimental, and a thrill went through her tender heart when it became
evident that Ezra's attention pointed at her. She quickly made him a
hero, and invested the thin-shanked, narrow-chested, waspish attorney
with a thousand tender attributes, and when, after one month's
acquaintance, she found herself alone with him in the poky little parlor
and he asking her to be his wife, her woman's heart overflowed, and
telling him she had loved him from the first hour they met she threw
herself into his arms, crying she was the happiest and most favored
woman in the world. In the midst of the happy lovers' talk she ran to
the shelf, took down a book, and, opening it, revealed a soiled sheet
of paper and asked her lover what it was. His love had given him a gift,
indeed. His trained eye recognized it at once as a draft of a new will,
in the handwriting of the deceased mother, and dated the very night of
her death. It was a rough draft, but across the bottom was drawn the
bold, masculine signature of the old lady. There were no signatures of
witnesses, but Ezra was lawyer enough to know it would stand and that it
revoked all previous wills. Calling in the two elder sisters he read the
will to their amazed ears, and then and there wrote out a full statement
as to the circumstance under which it was found. All four attached their
signatures to the document, and when Ezra kissed his love a tender good
night and went home, he hardly felt the paving stones under his feet,
for he had carefully tucked away in the inside pocket of his vest, just
over his heart, the little soiled piece of paper which told him in
unmistakable terms that his fortune was made, and the wedding ceremony
once over, that it was beyond all chance of change.

It would seem that the old lady, after her quarrel with her daughters,
went to the library in a rage and made the draft of a new will. The
chief change in it, as compared with the old genuine will which the
conspirators had destroyed, was that it was more favorable to Jane,
Ezra's wife to be. But what gave Ezra the greatest satisfaction was the
fact that Brea's wife was down by name in the new will for one dollar
lawful currency. The will was promptly filed and probated. Ezra gave
bonds and was appointed one of the executors, and he had what to him was
the immense satisfaction of denouncing Brea to his face as a forger and
villain.

Before the discovery of the new will, while it was believed that Mrs.
Brea was an heiress and her credit good, she and her husband had made
use of the fact, and had incurred debts to a large amount. Brea got his
wife to indorse his note for $10,000, and he borrowed that sum from the
bankers, but as soon as the true state of the case was known, his
creditors became clamorous and had him arrested on civil suits. Unable
to give bonds, he was locked up in Ludlow Street Jail, and there he
remained six months, until, acting upon Ezra's advice, the sisters
agreed to pay all his debts and give him and his wife $1,000 each if
they would live west of Chicago. This they were forced to accept, and
went to Montana. Brea opened a saloon at Butte City, but he never
recovered his spirits again. He became his own best customer, and that,
of course, meant ruin, but what, after all, killed him was the knowledge
that he had been for more than a score of days in full possession of
that old house and had spent scores of hours alone in the old library,
and yet had not discovered and destroyed the new will lying there at his
mercy.

The Sheriff soon sold out his saloon, while his wife eloped with his
best friend. Ruined in pocket, health and character, poor old Brea was
left bare to every storm that blew. One morning, as the sun was rising
over the town, surprising half a dozen belated gamblers in Ned Wright's
saloon as they were getting up to leave, they found lying across the
threshold the body of a man, ragged, emaciated, forlorn. It was Brea.

As soon as James had read the will he insisted upon having $5,000 from
Brea at once, and he got the money. But when that thunderbolt of the new
will fell on the two men, James sadly recognized that fortune and he
would shake hands no more, so far as this world is concerned, and he
resolved to chance returning to London before the whole of the $5,000 he
had from Brea was gone. To London he went; he lived a few years in
extreme poverty, driven to all manner of miserable shifts, and at last
died. This man died who ought to have been buried in Westminster Abbey,
so adding one more brilliant name to the long line of illustrious Lord
Chancellors from Thomas a Becket and Cardinal Wolsey down; but he,
hating his own soul, took the first step in wrongdoing, and, instead of
resting in the mighty Abbey and bequeathing his dust as a precious
legacy to succeeding generations, perished forlorn and alone, and was
buried in a pauper's grave.

[Illustration: GARRAWAY'S.]




CHAPTER XII.

RESTEZ ICI, MES ENFANTS.


We all landed in Liverpool in the highest spirits, and at once took the
train for London, enjoying the novelty of everything.

It was settled that George should pursue the venture alone in France,
while I should go with Mac to Germany to act as his second there. To
keep entirely clear myself, but at the same time to watch everything, to
exchange the German notes he obtained and to be ready to help if any one
should attempt to detain him.

Therefore, after completing certain preparations which required skill
and considerable business knowledge, we departed to execute this new
and, of course, last shuffle for fortune.

We had selected Berlin, Munich, Leipsic and Frankfort as the scenes of
our operations in Germany. In France we sought to operate in Bordeaux,
Marseilles and Lyons. At 8 p.m. Saturday we all crossed to Calais
together, where George said good-bye, and, leaving us to take the train
eastward to Berlin, he started west to Bordeaux. We were not to meet
again until after our hurried rush through the Continent and our return
to London with the proceeds. Before I give an account of Mac's adventure
and my own for the next three days I will here give George's narrative
in his own language, as related to us when we all met again in London:

After saying good-bye to you I arrived in Paris in due time, and
sauntered about for two hours until the train left for Bordeaux, where I
arrived at 8 o'clock Monday morning, and went at once to the Hotel
d'Orient, and after a bath and breakfast repaired to the bankers. As
soon as I presented my letters of introduction they received me with the
greatest consideration, lavishing every attention upon me, inviting me
to dinner and to a drive through the city afterward. I thanked them, and
explained that I was obliged to decline, as my agent was waiting for me
at Bayonne, where I had purchased some real estate, and, having been
recommended to their firm, I should feel obliged if they would cash my
draft for L2,000 and indorse it on my letter of credit. The manager
replied that it was the custom of the French bankers to require
twenty-four hours' notice before drawing a check, and asked me if the
next day would not answer. "We shall be happy to assist you," said he,
"in passing the time pleasantly." This was a new custom to me, but I
answered instantly, expressing regret that the nature of my business
precluded delay, it being necessary that I should reach Bayonne that
night. "I suppose," continued I, "that your bankers will not mind your
checking out a small sum without the usual notice. However, if it
occasions any embarrassment or inconvenience, I can easily procure the
money elsewhere." One of the partners replied that their bank would
without doubt honor their check, and the matter should be attended to at
once. I sat down for a half hour, conversing on a variety of topics. Of
course, this was a most trying period to me; the least show of haste or
anxiety might have betrayed me to those lynx-eyed, experienced men of
business. In the midst of our conversation an undercurrent of thought
kept running through my mind thus: "Who knows but they have sent a
dispatch to the Union Bank of London, merely as a matter of business
precaution, and that they are delaying me to get a reply? In that case I
shall have a good opportunity to learn the pure French accent while
passing my days in the Bagnio at Toulon." At last, however, the amount
was paid over to me in French bank notes. I deliberately counted them
and took leave, lighter in mind and heavier in purse by 50,000 francs.

[Illustration: THE RIGHT HONORABLE SIR SIDNEY WATERLOW, Lord Mayor of
London in 1873, in official costume.]

I had arranged that I would send all the money I obtained to the Queen's
Hotel, London, by post at the earliest possible moment after receiving
it, that in the event of any accident to myself the money should be
safe.

After receiving the money I inclosed it in a large envelope, addressing
it to the hotel in London. I also wrote on the envelope: "Echantillons
de papier" (i. e., samples of paper), after which I threw it into the
postoffice.

As I wished to reduce the risk as much as possible (the train for
Marseilles not leaving for three hours), I took a carriage and told the
driver to take me toward the next station on the way to that city. After
we were fairly out in the country I got outside and sat with the driver,
chatting with him about the country we were driving through, arriving in
the village about half an hour before the train from Bordeaux was due. I
dismissed my driver at a small village cabaret (tavern), walked to the
station, got aboard the train, and early the next morning was in
Marseilles. I breakfasted at the Hotel d'Europe, and looked over the
papers to see if the Bordeaux fraud had been discovered. As I could see
no indication of it, about 10 a.m. I took a carriage and went to call on
Messrs. Brune & Co.

On making myself known I was, as usual, received with the utmost
courtesy, began to talk business, and one of the firm got into my
carriage and rode with me to his bank to effect the sale of my draft on
London for the sum of L2,500. Arriving at the bank I took a seat in the
front office, while Mr. Brune went into the manager's room to introduce
the transaction; the clerks eyed me, as I thought, suspiciously, but
doubtless only curiously, because they perceived I was a foreigner.
Another thing which I noticed sent a shiver through me. After Mr. Brune
had been a few minutes in the manager's room, the bank porter stepped to
the outer door, closed and locked it. It being but 12 o'clock, I
imagined the precautionary measure must be due to my presence. "The
Bordeaux affair is discovered and has been telegraphed all over France,"
was my first thought; "all is over with me. I am a candidate for a
French prison, sure."

These and a thousand other thoughts flashed through my mind during the
quarter of an hour preceding Mr. Brune's reappearance with his hands
full of bank notes. I could hardly believe my eyes. I had suppressed all
signs of the internal hurricane which raged during those prolonged
moments of suspense.

Now the revulsion of feeling was so great that I nearly fainted.
However, by a mental effort, I recovered my self-possession and
effectually masked all inward convulsions.

Mr. Brune placed in my hands 62,000 francs, in notes of the Bank of
France, and we then descended to the carriage and drove to my hotel,
where we parted. I paid my bill, and at once made preparations to start
for Lyons, which was to be the next and last scene of my operations in
France.

As my train did not leave for three hours, I got into a carriage at some
distance from the hotel and was driven toward the next station, located
on the beautiful bay a few miles from Marseilles.

After driving along the shore of the bay for some miles I remember we
met two women, dressed in the quaint costume common to that part of the
country, each carrying a basket of eggs. I stopped the carriage and
endeavored to enter into conversation with the pair, b

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