CHAPTER II.
THE YEGGMEN’S LEAGUE.
At the foot of one of the uptown streets, East River, is, or was, a tumble-down shed, once used as a wholesale oyster depot.
At high tide the water came up under the shed to within a few feet of the street.
Seated around the room, the night following that of the abduction of the old banker, were seven or eight men, while at a rude table in the middle of the shed were two others engaged in playing cards, and on the table between them were several black bottles.
They were a brutal set, the occupants of the place, and more than one of them had received free board and lodgings at Sing Sing.
“I say, you, Jack Frost, that game ought to be about finished,” said the man called Skip. “I’m thirsty, I am, and the bottles are empty.”
“You lose, Dick Denton,” said the fellow addressed as Jack Frost, arising from the table. “Who will go and get the bottles filled? Two quarts, Dick, you know.”
“I’ll go myself,” said the unfortunate gambler, picking up two of the bottles and leaving the shed.
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t be long! I am dying for a drink,” remarked the thirsty Skip.
Dick Denton had not been gone long when there came a double rap upon the door.
The whole gang were on their feet instantly.
“Go to the door, Ben Baker,” said Skip, who seemed to be a leader among them.
“Who is there?”
“Blue!” was the answer.
“Green!” exclaimed Baker.
“Yellow!”
The rough had locked the door when he went to it, but now he drew the bolt.
“It’s Old Man Moses,” cried several, as an old Jew hobbled into the room, and they all laughed heartily.
The newcomer joined in their mirth, with a succession of sounds something like those of a bagpipe with the quinsy.
“You are very glad to see me, my children,” said he, as he rubbed his hands together.
“Of course we are,” said Skip Brodie. “Got anything for us to do?”
Dick Denton rapped on the door, and the Jew started at the sound.
Raising both his hands above his head, he hoarsely whispered:
“Do not open the door.”
“It’s Dick Denton,” said one.
Once more Ben Baker went to the door.
The usual formula was gone through with.
“Blue!”
“Green!”
“Yellow!”
“Stop!” The Jew caught Ben Baker’s arm as he was about to open the door.
“Are you crazy?”
“No! no!” cried the Jew. “Tell me, do you know the voice?”
“As well as I do my own. It is Dick Denton.”
“You are sure?”
Baker admitted Dick.
“Hello, old Shylock!” remarked Mr. Denton.
“Very glad to see you, Dick.”
“You always are, I know, when I have any swag.”
“Say, Moses,” said Ben Baker, “why were you so anxious about my not opening the door unless I recognized the voice? Don’t you know we have hundreds of members I never saw, and I am an old hand?”
“I know all the boys, and they all know old Moses.”
“There is no doubt of that,” remarked Ben Baker, “especially if they ever had any dealings with you. But, come, that is not answering my question.”
They all had gathered around the table, now, and were engaged in helping each other to empty the bottles.
“Boys!” cried the Jew, “you must leave here. You have been betrayed. Detective Nick Carter knows of this place, and may be down on it at any moment.”
“Betrayed!” shouted the brutes, in chorus.
“Tell me, who was it betrayed us?” Skip caught Moses roughly by the arm. “They must have set no value upon their life.”
“Was it Tambourine Jack?” suggested Mackrell.
“No; not him.”
“Who, then?” shouted several of the ruffians.
“Speak, you old screw, speak!” said Skip, tightening his grasp upon the other’s arm.
“You will not strike me?”
“No.”
“It was Dell Ladley.”
“You lie, Jew, the girl is as true as steel; I don’t go much on giving secrets to women, but she is different to the rest.”
As he spoke, Skip Brodie raised his fist and would have felled Old Man Moses to the floor, had he not been prevented by his companions.
“I swear to you what I say is true,” muttered the Jew, quivering with fear, so fierce were the looks that were directed at him.
“What proof have you?”
“I heard her; she did not know that I listened,” replied the old Hebrew; “she is to enter and open the door for Carter and the officers he will have with him.”
“The devil shoot that same Carter, say I!”
The sentiments of the speaker, a burly Irishman, found an echo in the breast of all.
“Excuse me, Moses, I believe you; I was too hasty.”
Skip extended his hand and the other grasped it.
“Why should I tell a lie?” said the Jew; “are we not bound to tell the truth to each other where business is concerned?”
“Hark!” exclaimed Ben Baker, “I hear footsteps.”
“Quick, Barney, the boat!”
The big Irishman, although it was in the dead of winter, leaped through a window into the waters of the river and swam to where a boat was anchored.
While he was rowing it to a position under the window, Skip Brodie went to the end of the shed nearest the land and opened a trapdoor.
“Give me a hand,” the leader said.
With the assistance of Mackrell and Dick Denton he dragged something through the trap.
Covered with grime, in the dim light of the hovel, it would have been hard indeed to have recognized this object as a human being.
Hilton Field, for it was he, more dead than alive, was dragged to the window as if he had been a bag of wheat.
“Ready, Barney?” Skip cried.
“Yes!”
Dick Denton and the others got into the boat—with the exception of Brodie.
“Now, boys, don’t drown him.”
Saying this, Skip flung the helpless banker into the arms outstretched to receive him.
“Pull away and be sure and keep close to the Brooklyn side.”
“Ain’t you coming?”
“No,” replied Skip.
“But if you remain you will be nabbed,” remonstrated the Jew.
“You said the girl was to come first?”
“Yes.”
“Then I shall wait, and when she comes—well.”
The ruffian’s features were distorted with passion.
“Woe to you, Jew,” Skip continued, “if her coming is not followed by that of the police. Pull off, boys; some one is knocking at the door.”
Again the knock was repeated.
Hastily closing the window, the rascal went to the door.
“Let me in! Let me in, I say.”
“That is not her voice,” muttered Skip.
“Blue!”
“Green!”
“Yellow!”
“Who’s there?”
The thief, believing now that they had been betrayed, was very careful.
“Me and Crackers,” was the reply he got.
“Come in—you!” exclaimed Brodie, swinging the door open.
“Crackers,” said Tambourine Jack, addressing the mongrel, “we don’t seem to be very welcome here to-night.”
Jack was a very valuable member of the gang and, notwithstanding his small size and queer ways, there were no large jobs undertaken in which he was not an active worker.
“Anything in the bottles?” asked the visitor, before placing one of them to his lips.
“I guess there is a little left.”
“Say, Skip, I wants to ask you a question,” said Jack. “How comes it that this high-toned rooster, Elmer Greer, bosses the gang?”
“Elmer Greer—I don’t know any such person.”
“Oh, yes, you does.”
“Well, if I do,” muttered Brodie, “how comes it that you know him?”
“Oh, my eye, I knows all the bloods about town,” replied Tambourine Jack. “Crackers here can tell you that we move in the very best society.”
The fellow drew a cigar stub from his pocket and lighting it, said:
“That’s the kind Bill Vanderbilt smokes; he recommended the brand to me, saying: ‘Jack, my boy, lay in a stock of them; they will all be bought up within a few days, there is such a great demand.’”
Skip was in no humor for chaffing.
Dark passions reigned in his breast.
The brute sat on a low stool, his elbows on his knees, his head resting on his hands.
He had determined upon a bloody piece of work, but the still, small voice of his conscience whispered to him not to do what he meditated.
“Tambourine,” he growled, “you can’t stop here.”
“Where are the others?”
“Just left.”
This information did not seem to please Mr. Jack.
“Gone, eh?”
“Yes,” replied Brodie, “they pulled off in the barge as you knocked at the door.”
“Go to sleep, Crackers,” said the little fellow, throwing himself on the floor; “I guess we have as good a right here as anybody else, seeing that we helps pay the rent. We haven’t got our receipt about us for last month, but what of that?—they won’t go to court to have us dispossessed.”
“I told you to go.”
“Now, Skip, we’re come to stay,” answered Jack. “Eh, Crackers?”
“He won’t squeal anyhow,” muttered Skip, “but I’d rather he was not here.”
There was another knock on the door; the ruffian went to it and, after getting the countersign, opened it.
“It’s you, is it? Curse you!”
He caught a young girl who stood in the doorway roughly by the arm, and dragged her in.
“Oh, don’t! you hurt me, Skip.”
The rascal released his hold, and closing the door securely, fastened it.
Returning to the woman, he again caught her and, dragging her toward the light, cried:
“Now, traitor, what have you got to say for yourself? Quick, or I will shake the life out of you.”
Dell Ladley was a fragile girl of about twenty, and she would have been considered very beautiful were it not for the deep marks of dissipation already stamped upon her young features.
“You would not hurt me, Skip,” she said; “you know you wouldn’t.”
“No, not I”—again he shook her—“but if you would jug us all, you know the penalty.”
“What do you mean?”
“That you have betrayed us to that demon, Nick Carter. You grow pale.”
“It is a lie!” she exclaimed.
The ruffian threw her to the floor, and picking up a bludgeon, he lifted it and was about to strike.
“When you were on the point of death, I nursed you,” moaned the girl. “Oh, have pity on me!”
Her words arrested the villain’s arm.
“I have thought over all that,” Skip Brodie said.
“And you will have mercy?”
She dragged herself to him, and clasped her arms about his knees, looking the while imploringly up into his face.
“It is a lie!” Dell continued.
“No, it is not.”
The girl shuddered.
She knew the nature of the man she had to deal with, and was quite aware that to him the taking of a human life was but a passing incident, remembered for a few days, and then forgotten unless something occurred to recall it.
“You will not, oh, you will not kill me!” pleaded the trembling girl.
“But I will, traitor.”
“No, no, oh, mercy!”
The bludgeon was again raised on high and was about to descend.
“Stop!”
Tambourine Jack caught the uplifted arm and placed the cold muzzle of a revolver against the villain’s head.
Skip allowed the club to fall to his side and pushed the little fellow away from him.
“How now? Dare you interfere when a traitor is to be punished?” cried Skip.
“Yes, I dare.”
The wig was torn off and the little fellow straightened himself up, showing himself a good-sized man, as he placed a whistle to his lips.
“Nick Carter, the detective!” cried Skip Brodie, dashing through the window, carrying away sash and all.
The detective sent a bullet after him, but whether the body that splashed into the dark waters was that of a corpse or a living man he could not tell.