CHAPTER VII.
THE STRANGERS AGAIN.
The big newsboy was taken completely by surprise. Never before had any one interfered when he was “having it out” with one of the little fellows.
For several blocks around Bill Buck was known as the king among the boys who sold papers, and anything that he said “went,” as the newsboys expressed it.
He glared at Larry savagely.
“Wot’s eatin’ yer!” he snarled. “Dis ain’t your affair. Let me alone.”
“I demand that you leave this little fellow alone,” returned Larry, quietly but firmly.
“He’s been sellin’ papers on my corner.”
“Do you own the corner?”
“No, but——”
“Then he has as much right to sell there as you.”
“If he sells dere ag’in I’ll break his head!”
“You won’t touch him.”
“Won’t I dough?”
“If you do you’ll have to settle with me.” Larry turned to the little chap. “What is your name?”
“Willie Morrison,” was the answer. “Say, mister, you’re awful good, you are!”
“Stop yer jaw, Willie!” blazed out Bill Buck.
“You stop!” ordered Larry. “If you say another word I’ll thrash you myself.”
“Maybe yer can’t do it,” sneered the big newsboy.
“There is no maybe about it, you impudent loafer. How do you like that?”
And without warning Larry raised the big brute off his feet with one hand and shook him until his teeth rattled.
“Let up! Oh, me neck!” roared Bill Buck. “Let up! Me head’s coming off!”
“Will you behave yourself if I let you go?”
“Yes, yes!”
“All right, then, see that you do. And mind, if you touch Willie Morrison again you’ll have a fresh score to settle with me, and I won’t be as easy as I was this time.”
So saying Larry cast the bully from him. Bill Buck lost no time in sneaking from the alley and out of sight.
In the meantime Willie Morrison had run to pick up his papers. Now he came back with a smiling face and his stock under his arm.
“Say, you’re all right, you are!” he said, admiringly. “You give him a lesson, you did!”
“Well, I hope he doesn’t forget it in a hurry,” said Larry. “If he hits you again you just tell me.”
“But where will I see you?”
“I’ll be around here once in a while after this. I’m from out of the city, but I expect to move here shortly. I won’t forget you.”
“Thank you, Mr.——”
“I’m plain Larry Barlow, Willie. That’s an easy name to remember.”
“I won’t forget, Mr. Barlow. Say, but you’ve got a strong arm!”
“I’m a machinist by trade and I’m used to handling big pieces of machinery. But I expect to get into the fire department here.”
At this announcement Willie Morrison’s face fell.
“My father used to be a fireman,” he said, in a lower voice.
“Used to be? Is he out of the department now?”
“He got killed up to a big fire near Central Park, two years ago. A brick wall fell in on him and two other men.”
“That’s too bad. Then your mother is a widow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you are helping to support her?”
“Yes, sir. She sews and I sell papers. We don’t make much, but it gives us our eating and a roof over our heads.”
“But didn’t she get a pension?”
“She did, but some man got her to put the money in some company, and now she ain’t got only what comes in, and that ain’t much.”
“That’s too bad. Where do you live?”
“Over on Second Avenue,” and the little newsboy mentioned the number.
“I’ll remember that, and maybe when I and my sister have come to live in New York we’ll call on you.”
“Mother will be glad to know you. She feels kind of lonely, not knowing many people here. We came from Rochester.”
“Well, you go on and sell your papers. I’ll—ha! the very man I want to see!”
Larry broke off short.
He had caught sight of two men hurrying along the street on the opposite side to the alley.
“Want to see those men?” queried Willie.
“Yes, I want to see them very much. Do you know them?”
“I know of ’em—or at least I know of the fellow in the checked suit. He’s a regular rounder from the Bowery named Andy Sluggers, although those that know him call him Check Sluggers, on account of the checks he wears.”
“Check Sluggers—I’ll remember that. Do you know the other man’s name?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m off now, for I want to know where they go and what their business is. They know something of a patent my father owned.”
So speaking our hero walked away and hurried after the strangers, who were now turning into a side street leading in the direction of the East River.
The two men walked on for several blocks and then entered a tenement house of the better class. On one side of the tenement was an alleyway leading to a large factory in the rear.
Larry paused in front of the house and when a girl came toward him skipping with a rope, he stopped her and asked her who lived in the dwelling.
“Oh, half a dozen families live there,” said the girl.
“Do the Sluggers live there?”
“Yes, on the top floor, in the back, next to the factory.”
“And who else?”
“The Caseys live on the next floor, and the Browns and the Hardings on the bottom floor. The top floor in front is empty—the folks moved out last week on account of a row with the Sluggers.
“How many of the Sluggers are there?”
“Only Check Sluggers and his wife, Ann. Ann gets drunk sometimes and that always makes trouble.”
“I thought I saw Check Sluggers going in there just now. Do you know the gentleman who was with him?”
“His name is Martin Pollox. I don’t know anything more about him excepting that he sometimes goes in the factory in the rear,” said the girl.
She skipped off and after a moment’s hesitation Larry entered the tenement and made his way up the dark and narrow stairs to the top floor.
As the girl had said, the front rooms on this floor were vacant and he soon found an apartment which was next to the one occupied by the Sluggers.
There was a door between, which was nailed up, but by putting his ear to the wood, which was thin, he easily made out what was being said on the other side.
Check Sluggers and Martin Pollox were in the room alone and in earnest conversation.
“I want my money, that’s what I want,” Check Sluggers was saying. “I’ve waited till I’m sick of waiting, Pollox.”
“I am sorry, but I must get some cash out of the patent first,” answered Martin Pollox. “I was hoping to get the money two days ago, but my man has gone away on business.”
“Oh, that’s an old yarn.”
“It’s the truth, Check. The man was going to put up twenty thousand dollars and form a brand-new company to put the elevator lift on the market.”
“Where has he gone to?”
“To England.”
“I’ll believe the yarn if you’ll tell me the man’s name.”
“His name is Richard Vern,” was Martin Pollox’s ready answer.