CHAPTER IV
THE CAPTURE OF THE WOOL SMUGGLERS
Except for the watchman, not a soul was astir about the Lycoming when Willie awoke the next morning. Eagerly he rose and dressed. Even with a multitude of interesting things about him to occupy the hours, he could hardly wait to resume the pursuit of the wool smugglers. But somehow he managed to pass the day, though as the afternoon waned his impatience increased visibly. When supper-time came and Sheridan had not yet appeared, Willie was almost in despair. He felt certain the Secret Service man had decided not to take him on the adventure.
All things come to him who waits, however, and time brought Sheridan to Willie. After the distressed lad had almost given up hope of seeing him, the Secret Service man appeared. Willie was too much agitated to remain quietly aboard the boat, and was pacing up and down the pier, when he heard a voice speaking to the watchman at the pier entrance. He recognized the voice instantly and raced down the pier to greet the Secret Service man.
“Well,” smiled Sheridan, “do you still want to go with me? Haven’t got cold feet, have you?”
“Want to go with you?” repeated Willie. “Why, I was almost sick for fear you had passed me up.”
Sheridan laughed. “I should have told you just when to expect me,” he said. “But the fact is that a fellow in this business never knows where he will be from hour to hour. However, I might have told you that this auction was set for nine o’clock.”
“Auction!” cried Willie. “Aren’t we going after the wool smugglers? I don’t want to go to any auction.”
“You will want to go to this one, all right. It’s going to be an auction of bled wool.”
“An auction of bled wool! What do you mean? Has it anything to do with those smuggling bargemen?”
“Everything. That’s the way they get rid of their wool. You see they steal it while they are carrying it on their barges. The wool comes into this port in great bales, weighing hundreds of pounds. A barge is loaded with, say, five hundred bales of it. The barge captain ‘bleeds’ the bales. Perhaps he takes only a pound from each bale. When he reaches his destination, he has to deliver the five hundred bales. He does it, of course, but each bale is just a little short in weight. Perhaps the bargeman has taken enough in all to make a bale for himself.”
“I see,” said Willie. “And then he sells this stolen wool at auction.”
“Exactly.”
“But who will buy it? People must know it is stolen.”
“Sure they know it. They buy it because they are dishonest, like the bargeman himself.”
“But sooner or later some of them will be caught. Why do they run the risk when they can buy wool that isn’t stolen?”
“They can get this cheaper. When wool comes into this country, the importer has to pay a heavy duty or tax on every pound. On the coarse wool that is used in making carpets he pays no duty at all; but on finer grades he has to pay a heavy tax. The importer either pays the duty outright, or has the wool put in a bonded warehouse, where it is under control of the government, and pays the duty as he takes it out. The wool carried by these barges is largely on its way to bonded warehouses. No duty has been paid on it. So every time a bale is bled, the government is cheated out of its revenue and the owner loses his wool. The crooked wool merchants buy the stuff because they can get it cheaper this way than they could if they bought it from an honest dealer.”
“Shall we be going?” asked Willie, who was too impatient to delay any longer.
Sheridan chuckled. “It’s easy to see you don’t have cold feet,” he commented. “But we can’t go with you dressed up like that. Get on those duds you got yesterday from the newsy.”
“Gee!” protested Willie. “Do I have to dust up my pants again?”
The Secret Service man laughed. “Get some overalls on board your ship,” he advised.
Willie took a good look at his companion. In the dusk of the pier shed, he had not noticed particularly how the detective was dressed. Now he saw that he looked even more like a tramp than he had the previous day. Willie raced back to the ship and laid the matter before Roy, who speedily borrowed some overalls from a deckhand. Even Willie had to laugh at himself when he got them on and looked in a mirror. After he had turned up the legs several times, and taken a reef in each shoulder strap, the things would stay on him, but they fitted like a meal sack. He pulled on his ragged coat and cap, and taking a last look at himself in the glass, called out, “Now for the wool auction. Good-bye, Roy.”
By the time the two wool hunters had left the pier, it was dark. Rapidly they made their way down West Street, for a distance, and then they cut straight across the city. At some other time Willie would have been glad to pause and look at the tower of the Woolworth Building, now glowing like some fairy structure in the light of myriads of concealed electric lamps, or to gaze at the lofty spire of the Singer Building, or to study the great hulks of other huge sky-scrapers. But now he had a mind for one thing only: he was absorbed in thoughts of the wool auction.
Presently they approached the East River water-front. The Secret Service man slowed down his pace until he was sauntering along like a snail. So impatient was Willie that he could hardly keep with him. He wanted to push ahead and get there.
“Just hold your horses,” said Sheridan. “This is a time when you want to make haste slowly. Use your ears and eyes, keep your mouth shut, and take it easy. Then you won’t blunder into something you can’t get out of.”
They were now on South Street, and approaching the pier where Willie had first seen his companion. He knew perfectly well where he was. Few people were on the streets, though along the wharves little knots of men had gathered here and there. Mostly they were smoking and sprawled at ease on string-pieces or in doorways. Nobody seemed to pay any attention to Willie and his companion.
“They are going to hold this auction on the pier where I met you,” said Sheridan in a low voice. “We are near it now, and you can see a number of men gathered there. I suppose old Larsen—he’s the fellow with the wool to sell—will hold his little show out near the end of the pier. There’s less likelihood of discovery there. Also, it’s easier to throw overboard anybody who interferes.”
“What do you want me to do?” asked Willie.
“We’ll have to keep out of sight until the gang begins to collect on the end of the pier. It will be pretty dark by that time, and we can probably join the group without attracting attention. But it won’t do for us to go together.”
It had never occurred to Willie that he might have to act alone, and he did not relish the idea of being left wholly to his own resources, on that dark pier, among these rough men. But he said quietly, “I’ll do just what you tell me to.”
“I don’t know exactly what to tell you,” replied the Secret Service man. “Boys aren’t supposed to be in on this game. If they notice you they may throw you out. You’ll just have to act like a street urchin and take what comes. But if they do order you off the pier, you’d better go quick. Otherwise you might get hurt. I can’t interfere for you. To do that might spoil my whole game.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Willie, looking very sober.
“If they do run you out, just hang around and try to see all you can. I might need you before we are done with this. There’s no telling. This isn’t a Sunday-school class we are going to, remember.”
“You can depend upon me,” said Willie.
“All right then. You go on down the street. I’ll hang around here for a while. Remember, we don’t know each other, and we have never seen each other before.”
“All right. Good-bye.” And Willie went on down the street, while Sheridan turned into a cigar store to buy some tobacco.
After Willie had walked several blocks he turned about and started back. He thought it must be nearly time for the auction to begin, and when he looked up the street toward the public pier, he was sure of it. No longer could he see men grouped on the street there. Again he felt the desire to run, that had mastered him on the preceding day. But this time he mastered it, and sauntered slowly along. When he came near the pier, he could see that the shoreward end of it was deserted, while a mass of black figures was dimly discernible at the far end. Fortunately there was no electric light immediately in front of this pier, and Willie slipped across the street, thankful for the protecting darkness. Once on the pier, he made his way quietly toward the circle of men. Unnoticed, he joined the group.
After a few moments, his eyes became accustomed to the unlighted pier and he realized that it was not nearly so dark as he had thought it was. He could make out the faces of those around him more or less distinctly. He knew that his own could be as readily distinguished. He pulled down his cap as far as he could and was in high hopes of going unnoticed.
His hopes were in vain, however. For suddenly a rough voice spoke out. “Well, we might as well get down to business. But first let’s be sure that everybody’s all right in this crowd.”
The speaker was Larsen, the possessor of the stolen wool. He began to move about among the gang, addressing now one, now another, by name. Presently he boomed out, “Who the deuce are you? I never seen you before.”
Sheridan’s voice replied, and Willie held his breath while he heard the Secret Service man reply in an unconcerned tone of voice: “Who? Me? Why, I’m Mike Carola, a junkie from Greenpoint.”
Apparently Larsen was satisfied. He continued his inspection of the crowd. Willie tried to avoid observation, but Larsen’s eagle eye spotted him.
“What the deuce you doin’ here?” he cried with an oath. “Kids ain’t allowed here. Get off this pier, and be quick about it, too.”
Willie lost no time about going. But he stopped running the instant he was off the pier. His heart was beating wildly, but he took a grip on himself and presently returned to the street end of the pier. Not so very far from the group of men were stacked the boxes among which Sheridan had been concealed the day before. Willie slowly edged his way toward these boxes, and finally gained their protection unobserved. Snuggled down among them he was safe from discovery. He could hear most of what was said, for the gang soon forgot their caution in the heat of competitive bidding. The auction had started.
“Twenty-five cents,” was the first word Willie heard.
“Twenty-six,” another voice said.
“Raise you a cent,” came another voice.
“Twenty-eight,” said the first voice, after a short pause.
The bidding continued fairly brisk until forty cents was reached. Then no more offers were forthcoming.
Larsen swore roundly. “What do you take me for? A sucker?” he said. “I can read the papers as well as anybody, and wool was selling for fifty-five cents on the market to-day. You don’t get my wool for no forty cents.”
“And we ain’t buyin’ no bled wool at market prices, neither,” retorted a truculent voice. “The risk we have to take is worth the difference in price. Forty cents is the limit. You can take that or keep your wool.”
Larsen swore loudly. “You needn’t think you can put up no job on me,” he said. “You know well enough the wool’s worth more than that. If you fellows don’t want it, there’s others that do. And I can get my price, too.”
“If them Secret Service guys don’t get it first,” said a voice with a hint of threat in the tone. “Somebody’s liable to peach on you any minute.”
“And if I found who done it,” said Larsen with another oath, “I’d put him in the East River quick. That ain’t a safe game to play on Andy Larsen.”
The voices had grown loud and threatening. “Shut up!” growled somebody. “Do you want to draw all the cops on South Street?” For a moment there was silence.
“Who takes my wool?” demanded Larsen. “Who’ll raise the ante?”
For a space there was no answer. Then Willie heard the voice of Sheridan. “Give you forty-two.”
Evidently there had been an agreement among the prospective buyers, as Larsen had suggested, for now an indignant murmur went up. “Who is the guy?” Willie heard some one say.
“That junkie from Greenpoint,” came the answer, accompanied by an oath.
“The wool is yours,” said Larsen. “The rest of you can go kick yourselves.” And he gave a hoarse laugh. The combination against him was beaten.
At once there was an outburst of angry voices. In the babel of sound Willie could hardly distinguish one word from another, but he understood that the crowd had turned on Sheridan. Willie’s heart almost stood still with fear for his friend. Then above all the noise rang out the voice of Larsen, bellowing a warning about “the cops.” Instantly the clamor subsided, only to start again as the crowd began to move toward the shore. Soon everybody was gone excepting a few barge captains whose boats lay in the dock beside the pier. They seemed to be cronies of Larsen’s.
Now Willie could hear plainly. Larsen was cursing the combination of junkies that had tried to put up a game on him. Presently he stopped swearing at them and turned to Sheridan, roughly inviting him to come into the cabin of his boat to see the wool and pay for it. The burly wool thief led the way, and Sheridan followed him without hesitation. Willie breathed easy until the other boatmen followed the barge captain and the Secret Service man over the side of the pier. A moment later loud voices arose within the hull of the barge. The sound of blows followed. Then all was still. Frightened, almost terrified, Willie scrambled from his hiding-place and raced for shore. He was certain Sheridan had been murdered.
Willie’s first impulse was to cry aloud for help. A second thought sealed his lips. The crowd his cries would draw might finish him as well as Sheridan: for the members of it would be friendly to Larsen. It was better to find a policeman. Sheridan might not be dead yet, and it might still be possible to save his life. But no policeman was in sight. Willie reached the end of the pier and glanced desperately up the street, then down. No bluecoat was to be seen. Which way should he go for help? Involuntarily Willie faced south and turned to his left. Then he ran south. He guessed wrong, for the policeman he sought was at that moment at the northern extremity of his beat. But Willie did not find it out until he had run far down South Street. Then he turned and raced back.
As he approached the public pier again, he looked down its black length, hoping against hope for some glimpse of his friend. Then he stopped dead in his tracks, struck dumb with amazement. There were Larsen and Sheridan, walking peaceably side by side, and just emerging from the darkness of the unlighted pier. They crossed the street and turned north. Willie followed close behind them. At the first street light Sheridan stopped, said something to his companion, and drew back his coat. Willie caught the gleam of a gold badge on his vest. He heard Larsen bellow profanely, but before the hulking bargeman could lift a finger, something shone in the light, there was a sharp click, and a handcuff glittered on his wrist.
Then Willie heard Sheridan say: “Be quiet, Larsen, and come on. I’ve got you right. If you try any monkey business, I’ll put a hole in you quick.” And in another second a wicked-looking automatic gleamed dully in Sheridan’s free hand.