Gallegher: A Newspaper Story

Gallegher: A Newspaper Story

We had had so many office-boys before Gallegher came among us that
they had begun to lose the characteristics of individuals, and became
merged in a composite photograph of small boys, to whom we applied the
generic title of "Here, you"; or "You, boy."

We had had sleepy boys, and lazy boys, and bright, "smart" boys, who
became so familiar on so short an acquaintance that we were forced to
part with them to save our own self-respect.

They generally graduated into district-messenger boys, and
occasionally returned to us in blue coats with nickel-plated buttons,
and patronized us.

But Gallegher was something different from anything we had experienced
before. Gallegher was short and broad in build, with a solid, muscular
broadness, and not a fat and dumpy shortness. He wore perpetually on
his face a happy and knowing smile, as if you and the world in general
were not impressing him as seriously as you thought you were, and his
eyes, which were very black and very bright, snapped intelligently at
you like those of a little black-and-tan terrier.

All Gallegher knew had been learnt on the streets; not a very good
school in itself, but one that turns out very knowing scholars. And
Gallegher had attended both morning and evening sessions. He could not
tell you who the Pilgrim Fathers were, nor could he name the thirteen
original States, but he knew all the officers of the twenty-second
police district by name, and he could distinguish the clang of a fire-
engine's gong from that of a patrol-wagon or an ambulance fully two
blocks distant. It was Gallegher who rang the alarm when the Woolwich
Mills caught fire, while the officer on the beat was asleep, and it
was Gallegher who led the "Black Diamonds" against the "Wharf Rats,"
when they used to stone each other to their hearts' content on the
coal-wharves of Richmond.

I am afraid, now that I see these facts written down, that Gallegher
was not a reputable character; but he was so very young and so very
old for his years that we all liked him very much nevertheless. He
lived in the extreme northern part of Philadelphia, where the cotton-
and woollen-mills run down to the river, and how he ever got home
after leaving the _Press_ building at two in the morning, was one
of the mysteries of the office. Sometimes he caught a night car, and
sometimes he walked all the way, arriving at the little house, where
his mother and himself lived alone, at four in the morning.
Occasionally he was given a ride on an early milk-cart, or on one of
the newspaper delivery wagons, with its high piles of papers still
damp and sticky from the press. He knew several drivers of "night
hawks"--those cabs that prowl the streets at night looking for belated
passengers--and when it was a very cold morning he would not go home
at all, but would crawl into one of these cabs and sleep, curled up on
the cushions, until daylight.

Besides being quick and cheerful, Gallegher possessed a power of
amusing the _Press's_ young men to a degree seldom attained by the
ordinary mortal. His clog-dancing on the city editor's desk, when that
gentleman was up-stairs fighting for two more columns of space, was
always a source of innocent joy to us, and his imitations of the
comedians of the variety halls delighted even the dramatic critic,
from whom the comedians themselves failed to force a smile.

But Gallegher's chief characteristic was his love for that element of
news generically classed as "crime." Not that he ever did anything
criminal himself. On the contrary, his was rather the work of the
criminal specialist, and his morbid interest in the doings of all
queer characters, his knowledge of their methods, their present
whereabouts, and their past deeds of transgression often rendered him
a valuable ally to our police reporter, whose daily feuilletons were
the only portion of the paper Gallegher deigned to read.

In Gallegher the detective element was abnormally developed. He had
shown this on several occasions, and to excellent purpose.

Once the paper had sent him into a Home for Destitute Orphans which
was believed to be grievously mismanaged, and Gallegher, while playing
the part of a destitute orphan, kept his eyes open to what was going
on around him so faithfully that the story he told of the treatment
meted out to the real orphans was sufficient to rescue the unhappy
little wretches from the individual who had them in charge, and to
have the individual himself sent to jail.

Gallegher's knowledge of the aliases, terms of imprisonment, and
various misdoings of the leading criminals in Philadelphia was almost
as thorough as that of the chief of police himself, and he could tell
to an hour when "Dutchy Mack" was to be let out of prison, and could
identify at a glance "Dick Oxford, confidence man," as "Gentleman Dan,
petty thief."

There were, at this time, only two pieces of news in any of the
papers. The least important of the two was the big fight between the
Champion of the United States and the Would-be Champion, arranged to
take place near Philadelphia; the second was the Burrbank murder,
which was filling space in newspapers all over the world, from New
York to Bombay.

Richard F. Burrbank was one of the most prominent of New York's
railroad lawyers; he was also, as a matter of course, an owner of much
railroad stock, and a very wealthy man. He had been spoken of as a
political possibility for many high offices, and, as the counsel for a
great railroad, was known even further than the great railroad itself
had stretched its system.

At six o'clock one morning he was found by his butler lying at the
foot of the hall stairs with two pistol wounds above his heart. He was
quite dead. His safe, to which only he and his secretary had the keys,
was found open, and $200,000 in bonds, stocks, and money, which had
been placed there only the night before, was found missing. The
secretary was missing also. His name was Stephen S. Hade, and his name
and his description had been telegraphed and cabled to all parts of
the world. There was enough circumstantial evidence to show, beyond
any question or possibility of mistake, that he was the murderer.

It made an enormous amount of talk, and unhappy individuals were being
arrested all over the country, and sent on to New York for
identification. Three had been arrested at Liverpool, and one man just
as he landed at Sydney, Australia. But so far the murderer had
escaped.

We were all talking about it one night, as everybody else was all over
the country, in the local room, and the city editor said it was worth
a fortune to any one who chanced to run across Hade and succeeded in
handing him over to the police. Some of us thought Hade had taken
passage from some one of the smaller seaports, and others were of the
opinion that he had buried himself in some cheap lodging-house in New
York, or in one of the smaller towns in New Jersey.

"I shouldn't be surprised to meet him out walking, right here in
Philadelphia," said one of the staff. "He'll be disguised, of course,
but you could always tell him by the absence of the trigger finger on
his right hand. It's missing, you know; shot off when he was a boy."

"You want to look for a man dressed like a tough," said the city
editor; "for as this fellow is to all appearances a gentleman, he will
try to look as little like a gentleman as possible."

"No, he won't," said Gallegher, with that calm impertinence that made
him dear to us. "He'll dress just like a gentleman. Toughs don't wear
gloves, and you see he's got to wear 'em. The first thing he thought
of after doing for Burrbank was of that gone finger, and how he was to
hide it. He stuffed the finger of that glove with cotton so's to make
it look like a whole finger, and the first time he takes off that
glove they've got him--see, and he knows it. So what youse want to do
is to look for a man with gloves on. I've been a-doing it for two
weeks now, and I can tell you it's hard work, for everybody wears
gloves this kind of weather. But if you look long enough you'll find
him. And when you think it's him, go up to him and hold out your hand
in a friendly way, like a bunco-steerer, and shake his hand; and if
you feel that his forefinger ain't real flesh, but just wadded cotton,
then grip to it with your right and grab his throat with your left,
and holler for help."

There was an appreciative pause.

"I see, gentlemen," said the city editor, dryly, "that Gallegher's
reasoning has impressed you; and I also see that before the week is
out all of my young men will be under bonds for assaulting innocent
pedestrians whose only offence is that they wear gloves in midwinter."

It was about a week after this that Detective Hefflefinger, of
Inspector Byrnes's staff, came over to Philadelphia after a burglar,
of whose whereabouts he had been misinformed by telegraph. He brought
the warrant, requisition, and other necessary papers with him, but the
burglar had flown. One of our reporters had worked on a New York
paper, and knew Hefflefinger, and the detective came to the office to
see if he could help him in his so far unsuccessful search.

He gave Gallegher his card, and after Gallegher had read it, and had
discovered who the visitor was, he became so demoralized that he was
absolutely useless.

"One of Byrnes's men" was a much more awe-inspiring individual to
Gallegher than a member of the Cabinet. He accordingly seized his hat
and overcoat, and leaving his duties to be looked after by others,
hastened out after the object of his admiration, who found his
suggestions and knowledge of the city so valuable, and his company so
entertaining, that they became very intimate, and spent the rest of
the day together.

In the meanwhile the managing editor had instructed his subordinates
to inform Gallegher, when he condescended to return, that his services
were no longer needed. Gallegher had played truant once too often.
Unconscious of this, he remained with his new friend until late the
same evening, and started the next afternoon toward the _Press_
office.

As I have said, Gallegher lived in the most distant part of the city,
not many minutes' walk from the Kensington railroad station, where
trains ran into the suburbs and on to New York.

It was in front of this station that a smoothly shaven, well-dressed
man brushed past Gallegher and hurried up the steps to the ticket
office.

He held a walking-stick in his right hand, and Gallegher, who now
patiently scrutinized the hands of every one who wore gloves, saw that
while three fingers of the man's hand were closed around the cane, the
fourth stood out in almost a straight line with his palm.

Gallegher stopped with a gasp and with a trembling all over his little
body, and his brain asked with a throb if it could be possible. But
possibilities and probabilities were to be discovered later. Now was
the time for action.

He was after the man in a moment, hanging at his heels and his eyes
moist with excitement. He heard the man ask for a ticket to
Torresdale, a little station just outside of Philadelphia, and when he
was out of hearing, but not out of sight, purchased one for the same
place.

The stranger went into the smoking-car, and seated himself at one end
toward the door. Gallegher took his place at the opposite end.

He was trembling all over, and suffered from a slight feeling of
nausea. He guessed it came from fright, not of any bodily harm that
might come to him, but at the probability of failure in his adventure
and of its most momentous possibilities.

The stranger pulled his coat collar up around his ears, hiding the
lower portion of his face, but not concealing the resemblance in his
troubled eyes and close-shut lips to the likenesses of the murderer
Hade.

They reached Torresdale in half an hour, and the stranger, alighting
quickly, struck off at a rapid pace down the country road leading to
the station.

Gallegher gave him a hundred yards' start, and then followed slowly
after. The road ran between fields and past a few frame-houses set far
from the road in kitchen gardens.

Once or twice the man looked back over his shoulder, but he saw only a
dreary length of road with a small boy splashing through the slush in
the midst of it and stopping every now and again to throw snowballs at
belated sparrows.

After a ten minutes' walk the stranger turned into a side road which
led to only one place, the Eagle Inn, an old roadside hostelry known
now as the headquarters for pothunters from the Philadelphia game
market and the battle-ground of many a cock-fight.

Gallegher knew the place well. He and his young companions had often
stopped there when out chestnutting on holidays in the autumn.

The son of the man who kept it had often accompanied them on their
excursions, and though the boys of the city streets considered him a
dumb lout, they respected him somewhat owing to his inside knowledge
of dog and cock-fights.

The stranger entered the inn at a side door, and Gallegher, reaching
it a few minutes later, let him go for the time being, and set about
finding his occasional playmate, young Keppler.

Keppler's offspring was found in the wood-shed.

"'Tain't hard to guess what brings you out here," said the tavern-
keeper's son, with a grin; "it's the fight."

"What fight?" asked Gallegher, unguardedly.

"What fight? Why, _the_ fight," returned his companion, with the slow
contempt of superior knowledge. "It's to come off here to-night. You
knew that as well as me; anyway your sportin' editor knows it. He got
the tip last night, but that won't help you any. You needn't think
there's any chance of your getting a peep at it. Why, tickets is two
hundred and fifty apiece!"

"Whew!" whistled Gallegher, "where's it to be?"

"In the barn," whispered Keppler. "I helped 'em fix the ropes this
morning, I did."

"Gosh, but you're in luck," exclaimed Gallegher, with flattering envy.
"Couldn't I jest get a peep at it?"

"Maybe," said the gratified Keppler. "There's a winder with a wooden
shutter at the back of the barn. You can get in by it, if you have
some one to boost you up to the sill."

"Sa-a-y," drawled Gallegher, as if something had but just that moment
reminded him. "Who's that gent who come down the road just a bit ahead
of me--him with the cape-coat! Has he got anything to do with the
fight?"

"Him?" repeated Keppler in tones of sincere disgust. "No-oh, he ain't
no sport. He's queer, Dad thinks. He come here one day last week about
ten in the morning, said his doctor told him to go out 'en the country
for his health. He's stuck up and citified, and wears gloves, and
takes his meals private in his room, and all that sort of ruck. They
was saying in the saloon last night that they thought he was hiding
from something, and Dad, just to try him, asks him last night if he
was coming to see the fight. He looked sort of scared, and said he
didn't want to see no fight. And then Dad says, 'I guess you mean you
don't want no fighters to see you.' Dad didn't mean no harm by it,
just passed it as a joke; but Mr. Carleton, as he calls himself, got
white as a ghost an' says, 'I'll go to the fight willing enough,' and
begins to laugh and joke. And this morning he went right into the bar-
room, where all the sports were setting, and said he was going into
town to see some friends; and as he starts off he laughs an' says,
'This don't look as if I was afraid of seeing people, does it?' but
Dad says it was just bluff that made him do it, and Dad thinks that if
he hadn't said what he did, this Mr. Carleton wouldn't have left his
room at all."

Gallegher had got all he wanted, and much more than he had hoped for--
so much more that his walk back to the station was in the nature of a
triumphal march.

He had twenty minutes to wait for the next train, and it seemed an
hour. While waiting he sent a telegram to Hefflefinger at his hotel.
It read: "Your man is near the Torresdale station, on Pennsylvania
Railroad; take cab, and meet me at station. Wait until I come.
GALLEGHER."

With the exception of one at midnight, no other train stopped at
Torresdale that evening, hence the direction to take a cab.

The train to the city seemed to Gallegher to drag itself by inches. It
stopped and backed at purposeless intervals, waited for an express to
precede it, and dallied at stations, and when, at last, it reached the
terminus, Gallegher was out before it had stopped and was in the cab
and off on his way to the home of the sporting editor.

The sporting editor was at dinner and came out in the hall to see him,
with his napkin in his hand. Gallegher explained breathlessly that he
had located the murderer for whom the police of two continents were
looking, and that he believed, in order to quiet the suspicions of the
people with whom he was hiding, that he would be present at the fight
that night.

The sporting editor led Gallegher into his library and shut the door.
"Now," he said, "go over all that again."

Gallegher went over it again in detail, and added how he had sent for
Hefflefinger to make the arrest in order that it might be kept from
the knowledge of the local police and from the Philadelphia reporters.

"What I want Hefflefinger to do is to arrest Hade with the warrant he
has for the burglar," explained Gallegher; "and to take him on to New
York on the owl train that passes Torresdale at one. It don't get to
Jersey City until four o'clock, one hour after the morning papers go
to press. Of course, we must fix Hefflefinger so's he'll keep quiet
and not tell who his prisoner really is."

The sporting editor reached his hand out to pat Gallegher on the head,
but changed his mind and shook hands with him instead.

"My boy," he said, "you are an infant phenomenon. If I can pull the
rest of this thing off to-night it will mean the $5,000 reward and
fame galore for you and the paper. Now, I'm going to write a note to
the managing editor, and you can take it around to him and tell him
what you've done and what I am going to do, and he'll take you back on
the paper and raise your salary. Perhaps you didn't know you've been
discharged?"

"Do you think you ain't a-going to take me with you?" demanded
Gallegher.

"Why, certainly not. Why should I? It all lies with the detective and
myself now. You've done your share, and done it well. If the man's
caught, the reward's yours. But you'd only be in the way now. You'd
better go to the office and make your peace with the chief."

"If the paper can get along without me, I can get along without the
old paper," said Gallegher, hotly. "And if I ain't a-going with you,
you ain't neither, for I know where Hefflefinger is to be, and you
don't, and I won't tell you."

"Oh, very well, very well," replied the sporting editor, weakly
capitulating. "I'll send the note by a messenger; only mind, if you
lose your place, don't blame me."

Gallegher wondered how this man could value a week's salary against
the excitement of seeing a noted criminal run down, and of getting the
news to the paper, and to that one paper alone.

From that moment the sporting editor sank in Gallegher's estimation.

Mr. Dwyer sat down at his desk and scribbled off the following note:

"I have received reliable information that Hade, the Burrbank
murderer, will be present at the fight to-night. We have arranged it
so that he will be arrested quietly and in such a manner that the fact
may be kept from all other papers. I need not point out to you that
this will be the most important piece of news in the country to-
morrow.

"Yours, etc., MICHAEL E. DWYER."

The sporting editor stepped into the waiting cab, while Gallegher
whispered the directions to the driver. He was told to go first to a
district-messenger office, and from there up to the Ridge Avenue Road,
out Broad Street, and on to the old Eagle Inn, near Torresdale. It was
a miserable night. The rain and snow were falling together, and
freezing as they fell. The sporting editor got out to send his message
to the _Press_ office, and then lighting a cigar, and turning up the
collar of his great-coat, curled up in the corner of the cab.

"Wake me when we get there, Gallegher," he said. He knew he had a long
ride, and much rapid work before him, and he was preparing for the
strain.

To Gallegher the idea of going to sleep seemed almost criminal. From
the dark corner of the cab his eyes shone with excitement, and with
the awful joy of anticipation. He glanced every now and then to where
the sporting editor's cigar shone in the darkness, and watched it as
it gradually burnt more dimly and went out. The lights in the shop
windows threw a broad glare across the ice on the pavements, and the
lights from the lamp-posts tossed the distorted shadow of the cab, and
the horse, and the motionless driver, sometimes before and sometimes
behind them.

After half an hour Gallegher slipped down to the bottom of the cab and
dragged out a lap-robe, in which he wrapped himself. It was growing
colder, and the damp, keen wind swept in through the cracks until the
window-frames and woodwork were cold to the touch.

An hour passed, and the cab was still moving more slowly over the
rough surface of partly paved streets, and by single rows of new
houses standing at different angles to each other in fields covered
with ash-heaps and brick-kilns. Here and there the gaudy lights of a
drug-store, and the forerunner of suburban civilization, shone from
the end of a new block of houses, and the rubber cape of an occasional
policeman showed in the light of the lamp-post that he hugged for
comfort.

Then even the houses disappeared, and the cab dragged its way between
truck farms, with desolate-looking glass-covered beds, and pools of
water, half-caked with ice, and bare trees, and interminable fences.

Once or twice the cab stopped altogether, and Gallegher could hear the
driver swearing to himself, or at the horse, or the roads. At last
they drew up before the station at Torresdale. It was quite deserted,
and only a single light cut a swath in the darkness and showed a
portion of the platform, the ties, and the rails glistening in the
rain. They walked twice past the light before a figure stepped out of
the shadow and greeted them cautiously.

"I am Mr. Dwyer, of the _Press,_" said the sporting editor, briskly.
"You've heard of me, perhaps. Well, there shouldn't be any difficulty
in our making a deal, should there? This boy here has found Hade, and
we have reason to believe he will be among the spectators at the fight
to-night. We want you to arrest him quietly, and as secretly as
possible. You can do it with your papers and your badge easily enough.
We want you to pretend that you believe he is this burglar you came
over after. If you will do this, and take him away without any one so
much as suspecting who he really is, and on the train that passes here
at 1.20 for New York, we will give you $500 out of the $5,000 reward.
If, however, one other paper, either in New York or Philadelphia, or
anywhere else, knows of the arrest, you won't get a cent. Now, what do
you say?"

The detective had a great deal to say. He wasn't at all sure the man
Gallegher suspected was Hade; he feared he might get himself into
trouble by making a false arrest, and if it should be the man, he was
afraid the local police would interfere.

"We've no time to argue or debate this matter," said Dwyer, warmly.
"We agree to point Hade out to you in the crowd. After the fight is
over you arrest him as we have directed, and you get the money and the
credit of the arrest. If you don't like this, I will arrest the man
myself, and have him driven to town, with a pistol for a warrant."

Hefflefinger considered in silence and then agreed unconditionally.
"As you say, Mr. Dwyer," he returned. "I've heard of you for a
thoroughbred sport. I know you'll do what you say you'll do; and as
for me I'll do what you say and just as you say, and it's a very
pretty piece of work as it stands."

They all stepped back into the cab, and then it was that they were met
by a fresh difficulty, how to get the detective into the barn where
the fight was to take place, for neither of the two men had $250 to
pay for his admittance.

But this was overcome when Gallegher remembered the window of which
young Keppler had told him.

In the event of Hade's losing courage and not daring to show himself
in the crowd around the ring, it was agreed that Dwyer should come to
the barn and warn Hefflefinger; but if he should come, Dwyer was
merely to keep near him and to signify by a prearranged gesture which
one of the crowd he was.

They drew up before a great black shadow of a house, dark, forbidding,
and apparently deserted. But at the sound of the wheels on the gravel
the door opened, letting out a stream of warm, cheerful light, and a
man's voice said, "Put out those lights. Don't youse know no better
than that?" This was Keppler, and he welcomed Mr. Dwyer with effusive
courtesy.

The two men showed in the stream of light, and the door closed on
them, leaving the house as it was at first, black and silent, save for
the dripping of the rain and snow from the eaves.

The detective and Gallegher put out the cab's lamps and led the horse
toward a long, low shed in the rear of the yard, which they now
noticed was almost filled with teams of many different makes, from the
Hobson's choice of a livery stable to the brougham of the man about
town.

"No," said Gallegher, as the cabman stopped to hitch the horse beside
the others, "we want it nearest that lower gate. When we newspaper men
leave this place we'll leave it in a hurry, and the man who is nearest
town is likely to get there first. You won't be a-following of no
hearse when you make your return trip."

Gallegher tied the horse to the very gate-post itself, leaving the
gate open and allowing a clear road and a flying start for the
prospective race to Newspaper Row.

The driver disappeared under the shelter of the porch, and Gallegher
and the detective moved off cautiously to the rear of the barn. "This
must be the window," said Hefflefinger, pointing to a broad wooden
shutter some feet from the ground.

"Just you give me a boost once, and I'll get that open in a jiffy,"
said Gallegher.

The detective placed his hands on his knees, and Gallegher stood upon
his shoulders, and with the blade of his knife lifted the wooden
button that fastened the window on the inside, and pulled the shutter
open.

Then he put one leg inside over the sill, and leaning down helped to
draw his fellow-conspirator up to a level with the window. "I feel
just like I was burglarizing a house," chuckled Gallegher, as he
dropped noiselessly to the floor below and refastened the shutter. The
barn was a large one, with a row of stalls on either side in which
horses and cows were dozing. There was a haymow over each row of
stalls, and at one end of the barn a number of fence-rails had been
thrown across from one mow to the other. These rails were covered with
hay.

[Illustration with caption: Gallegher stood upon his shoulders.]

In the middle of the floor was the ring. It was not really a ring, but
a square, with wooden posts at its four corners through which ran a
heavy rope. The space inclosed by the rope was covered with sawdust.

Gallegher could not resist stepping into the ring, and after stamping
the sawdust once or twice, as if to assure himself that he was really
there, began dancing around it, and indulging in such a remarkable
series of fistic manoeuvres with an imaginary adversary that the
unimaginative detective precipitately backed into a corner of the
barn.

"Now, then," said Gallegher, having apparently vanquished his foe,
"you come with me." His companion followed quickly as Gallegher
climbed to one of the hay-mows, and crawling carefully out on the
fence-rail, stretched himself at full length, face downward. In this
position, by moving the straw a little, he could look down, without
being himself seen, upon the heads of whomsoever stood below. "This is
better'n a private box, ain't it?" said Gallegher.

The boy from the newspaper office and the detective lay there in
silence, biting at straws and tossing anxiously on their comfortable
bed.

It seemed fully two hours before they came. Gallegher had listened
without breathing, and with every muscle on a strain, at least a dozen
times, when some movement in the yard had led him to believe that they
were at the door. And he had numerous doubts and fears. Sometimes it
was that the police had learnt of the fight, and had raided Keppler's
in his absence, and again it was that the fight had been postponed,
or, worst of all, that it would be put off until so late that Mr.
Dwyer could not get back in time for the last edition of the paper.
Their coming, when at last they came, was heralded by an advance-guard
of two sporting men, who stationed themselves at either side of the
big door.

"Hurry up, now, gents," one of the men said with a shiver, "don't keep
this door open no longer'n is needful."

It was not a very large crowd, but it was wonderfully well selected.
It ran, in the majority of its component parts, to heavy white coats
with pearl buttons. The white coats were shouldered by long blue coats
with astrakhan fur trimmings, the wearers of which preserved a
cliqueness not remarkable when one considers that they believed every
one else present to be either a crook or a prize-fighter.

There were well-fed, well-groomed club-men and brokers in the crowd, a
politician or two, a popular comedian with his manager, amateur boxers
from the athletic clubs, and quiet, close-mouthed sporting men from
every city in the country. Their names if printed in the papers would
have been as familiar as the types of the papers themselves.

And among these men, whose only thought was of the brutal sport to
come, was Hade, with Dwyer standing at ease at his shoulder,--Hade,
white, and visibly in deep anxiety, hiding his pale face beneath a
cloth travelling-cap, and with his chin muffled in a woollen scarf. He
had dared to come because he feared his danger from the already
suspicious Keppler was less than if he stayed away. And so he was
there, hovering restlessly on the border of the crowd, feeling his
danger and sick with fear.

When Hefflefinger first saw him he started up on his hands and elbows
and made a movement forward as if he would leap down then and there
and carry off his prisoner single-handed.

"Lie down," growled Gallegher; "an officer of any sort wouldn't live
three minutes in that crowd."

The detective drew back slowly and buried himself again in the straw,
but never once through the long fight which followed did his eyes
leave the person of the murderer. The newspaper men took their places
in the foremost row close around the ring, and kept looking at their
watches and begging the master of ceremonies to "shake it up, do."

There was a great deal of betting, and all of the men handled the
great roll of bills they wagered with a flippant recklessness which
could only be accounted for in Gallegher's mind by temporary mental
derangement. Some one pulled a box out into the ring and the master of
ceremonies mounted it, and pointed out in forcible language that as
they were almost all already under bonds to keep the peace, it
behooved all to curb their excitement and to maintain a severe
silence, unless they wanted to bring the police upon them and have
themselves "sent down" for a year or two.

Then two very disreputable-looking persons tossed their respective
principals' high hats into the ring, and the crowd, recognizing in
this relic of the days when brave knights threw down their gauntlets
in the lists as only a sign that the fight was about to begin, cheered
tumultuously.

This was followed by a sudden surging forward, and a mutter of
admiration much more flattering than the cheers had been, when the
principals followed their hats, and slipping out of their great-coats,
stood forth in all the physical beauty of the perfect brute.

Their pink skin was as soft and healthy looking as a baby's, and
glowed in the lights of the lanterns like tinted ivory, and underneath
this silken covering the great biceps and muscles moved in and out and
looked like the coils of a snake around the branch of a tree.

Gentleman and blackguard shouldered each other for a nearer view; the
coachmen, whose metal buttons were unpleasantly suggestive of police,
put their hands, in the excitement of the moment, on the shoulders of
their masters; the perspiration stood out in great drops on the
foreheads of the backers, and the newspaper men bit somewhat nervously
at the ends of their pencils.

And in the stalls the cows munched contentedly at their cuds and gazed
with gentle curiosity at their two fellow-brutes, who stood waiting
the signal to fall upon, and kill each other if need be, for the
delectation of their brothers.

"Take your places," commanded the master of ceremonies.

In the moment in which the two men faced each other the crowd became
so still that, save for the beating of the rain upon the shingled roof
and the stamping of a horse in one of the stalls, the place was as
silent as a church.

"Time," shouted the master of ceremonies.

The two men sprang into a posture of defence, which was lost as
quickly as it was taken, one great arm shot out like a piston-rod;
there was the sound of bare fists beating on naked flesh; there was an
exultant indrawn gasp of savage pleasure and relief from the crowd,
and the great fight had begun.

How the fortunes of war rose and fell, and changed and rechanged that
night, is an old story to those who listen to such stories; and those
who do not will be glad to be spared the telling of it. It was, they
say, one of the bitterest fights between two men that this country has
ever known.

But all that is of interest here is that after an hour of this
desperate brutal business the champion ceased to be the favorite; the
man whom he had taunted and bullied, and for whom the public had but
little sympathy, was proving himself a likely winner, and under his
cruel blows, as sharp and clean as those from a cutlass, his opponent
was rapidly giving way.

The men about the ropes were past all control now; they drowned
Keppler's petitions for silence with oaths and in inarticulate shouts
of anger, as if the blows had fallen upon them, and in mad rejoicings.
They swept from one end of the ring to the other, with every muscle
leaping in unison with those of the man they favored, and when a New
York correspondent muttered over his shoulder that this would be the
biggest sporting surprise since the Heenan-Sayers fight, Mr. Dwyer
nodded his head sympathetically in assent.

In the excitement and tumult it is doubtful if any heard the three
quickly repeated blows that fell heavily from the outside upon the big
doors of the barn. If they did, it was already too late to mend
matters, for the door fell, torn from its hinges, and as it fell a
captain of police sprang into the light from out of the storm, with
his lieutenants and their men crowding close at his shoulder.

In the panic and stampede that followed, several of the men stood as
helplessly immovable as though they had seen a ghost; others made a
mad rush into the arms of the officers and were beaten back against
the ropes of the ring; others dived headlong into the stalls, among
the horses and cattle, and still others shoved the rolls of money they
held into the hands of the police and begged like children to be
allowed to escape.

The instant the door fell and the raid was declared Hefflefinger
slipped over the cross rails on which he had been lying, hung for an
instant by his hands, and then dropped into the centre of the fighting
mob on the floor. He was out of it in an instant with the agility of a
pickpocket, was across the room and at Hade's throat like a dog. The
murderer, for the moment, was the calmer man of the two.

"Here," he panted, "hands off, now. There's no need for all this
violence. There's no great harm in looking at a fight, is there?
There's a hundred-dollar bill in my right hand; take it and let me
slip out of this. No one is looking. Here."

But the detective only held him the closer.

"I want you for burglary," he whispered under his breath. "You've got
to come with me now, and quick. The less fuss you make, the better for
both of us. If you don't know who I am, you can feel my badge under my
coat there. I've got the authority. It's all regular, and when we're
out of this d--d row I'll show you the papers."

He took one hand from Hade's throat and pulled a pair of handcuffs
from his pocket.

"It's a mistake. This is an outrage," gasped the murderer, white and
trembling, but dreadfully alive and desperate for his liberty. "Let me
go, I tell you! Take your hands off of me! Do I look like a burglar,
you fool?"

"I know who you look like," whispered the detective, with his face
close to the face of his prisoner. "Now, will you go easy as a
burglar, or shall I tell these men who you are and what I _do_ want
you for? Shall I call out your real name or not? Shall I tell them?
Quick, speak up; shall I?"

There was something so exultant--something so unnecessarily savage in
the officer's face that the man he held saw that the detective knew
him for what he really was, and the hands that had held his throat
slipped down around his shoulders, or he would have fallen. The man's
eyes opened and closed again, and he swayed weakly backward and
forward, and choked as if his throat were dry and burning. Even to
such a hardened connoisseur in crime as Gallegher, who stood closely
by, drinking it in, there was something so abject in the man's terror
that he regarded him with what was almost a touch of pity.

"For God's sake," Hade begged, "let me go. Come with me to my room and
I'll give you half the money. I'll divide with you fairly. We can both
get away. There's a fortune for both of us there. We both can get
away. You'll be rich for life. Do you understand--for life!"

But the detective, to his credit, only shut his lips the tighter.

"That's enough," he whispered, in return. "That's more than I
expected. You've sentenced yourself already. Come!"

Two officers in uniform barred their exit at the door, but
Hefflefinger smiled easily and showed his badge.

"One of Byrnes's men," he said, in explanation; "came over expressly
to take this chap. He's a burglar; 'Arlie' Lane, _alias_ Carleton.
I've shown the papers to the captain. It's all regular. I'm just going
to get his traps at the hotel and walk him over to the station. I
guess we'll push right on to New York to-night."

The officers nodded and smiled their admiration for the representative
of what is, perhaps, the best detective force in the world, and let
him pass.

Then Hefflefinger turned and spoke to Gallegher, who still stood as
watchful as a dog at his side. "I'm going to his room to get the bonds
and stuff," he whispered; "then I'll march him to the station and take
that train. I've done my share; don't forget yours!"

"Oh, you'll get your money right enough," said Gallegher. "And, sa-ay,"
he added, with the appreciative nod of an expert, "do you know, you did
it rather well."

Mr. Dwyer had been writing while the raid was settling down, as he had
been writing while waiting for the fight to begin. Now he walked over
to where the other correspondents stood in angry conclave.

The newspaper men had informed the officers who hemmed them in that
they represented the principal papers of the country, and were
expostulating vigorously with the captain, who had planned the raid,
and who declared they were under arrest.

[Illustration with caption: "For God's sake," Hade begged, "let me
go!"]

"Don't be an ass, Scott," said Mr. Dwyer, who was too excited to be
polite or politic. "You know our being here isn't a matter of choice.
We came here on business, as you did, and you've no right to hold us."

"If we don't get our stuff on the wire at once," protested a New York
man, "we'll be too late for to-morrow's paper, and----"

Captain Scott said he did not care a profanely small amount for to-
morrow's paper, and that all he knew was that to the station-house the
newspaper men would go. There they would have a hearing, and if the
magistrate chose to let them off, that was the magistrate's business,
but that his duty was to take them into custody.

"But then it will be too late, don't you understand?" shouted Mr.
Dwyer. "You've got to let us go _now,_ at once."

"I can't do it, Mr. Dwyer," said the captain, "and that's all there is
to it. Why, haven't I just sent the president of the Junior Republican
Club to the patrol-wagon, the man that put this coat on me, and do you
think I can let you fellows go after that? You were all put under
bonds to keep the peace not three days ago, and here you're at it--
fighting like badgers. It's worth my place to let one of you off."

What Mr. Dwyer said next was so uncomplimentary to the gallant Captain
Scott that that overwrought individual seized the sporting editor by
the shoulder, and shoved him into the hands of two of his men.

This was more than the distinguished Mr. Dwyer could brook, and he
excitedly raised his hand in resistance. But before he had time to do
anything foolish his wrist was gripped by one strong, little hand, and
he was conscious that another was picking the pocket of his great-
coat.

He slapped his hands to his sides, and looking down, saw Gallegher
standing close behind him and holding him by the wrist. Mr. Dwyer had
forgotten the boy's existence, and would have spoken sharply if
something in Gallegher's innocent eyes had not stopped him.

Gallegher's hand was still in that pocket, in which Mr. Dwyer had
shoved his note-book filled with what he had written of Gallegher's
work and Hade's final capture, and with a running descriptive account
of the fight. With his eyes fixed on Mr. Dwyer, Gallegher drew it out,
and with a quick movement shoved it inside his waistcoat. Mr. Dwyer
gave a nod of comprehension. Then glancing at his two guardsmen, and
finding that they were still interested in the wordy battle of the
correspondents with their chief, and had seen nothing, he stooped and
whispered to Gallegher: "The forms are locked at twenty minutes to
three. If you don't get there by that time it will be of no use, but
if you're on time you'll beat the town--and the country too."

Gallegher's eyes flashed significantly, and nodding his head to show
he understood, started boldly on a run toward the door. But the
officers who guarded it brought him to an abrupt halt, and, much to
Mr. Dwyer's astonishment, drew from him what was apparently a torrent
of tears.

"Let me go to me father. I want me father," the boy shrieked,
hysterically. "They've 'rested father. Oh, daddy, daddy. They're a-
goin' to take you to prison."

"Who is your father, sonny?" asked one of the guardians of the gate.

"Keppler's me father," sobbed Gallegher. "They're a-goin' to lock him
up, and I'll never see him no more."

"Oh, yes, you will," said the officer, good-naturedly; "he's there in
that first patrol-wagon. You can run over and say good night to him,
and then you'd better get to bed. This ain't no place for kids of your
age."

"Thank you, sir," sniffed Gallegher, tearfully, as the two officers
raised their clubs, and let him pass out into the darkness.

The yard outside was in a tumult, horses were stamping, and plunging,
and backing the carriages into one another; lights were flashing from
every window of what had been apparently an uninhabited house, and the
voices of the prisoners were still raised in angry expostulation.

Three police patrol-wagons were moving about the yard, filled with
unwilling passengers, who sat or stood, packed together like sheep,
and with no protection from the sleet and rain.

Gallegher stole off into a dark corner, and watched the scene until
his eyesight became familiar with the position of the land.

Then with his eyes fixed fearfully on the swinging light of a lantern
with which an officer was searching among the carriages, he groped his
way between horses' hoofs and behind the wheels of carriages to the
cab which he had himself placed at the furthermost gate. It was still
there, and the horse, as he had left it, with its head turned toward
the city. Gallegher opened the big gate noiselessly, and worked
nervously at the hitching strap. The knot was covered with a thin
coating of ice, and it was several minutes before he could loosen it.
But his teeth finally pulled it apart, and with the reins in his hands
he sprang upon the wheel. And as he stood so, a shock of fear ran down
his back like an electric current, his breath left him, and he stood
immovable, gazing with wide eyes into the darkness.

The officer with the lantern had suddenly loomed up from behind a
carriage not fifty feet distant, and was standing perfectly still,
with his lantern held over his head, peering so directly toward
Gallegher that the boy felt that he must see him. Gallegher stood with
one foot on the hub of the wheel and with the other on the box waiting
to spring. It seemed a minute before either of them moved, and then
the officer took a step forward, and demanded sternly, "Who is that?
What are you doing there?"

There was no time for parley then. Gallegher felt that he had been
taken in the act, and that his only chance lay in open flight. He
leaped up on the box, pulling out the whip as he did so, and with a
quick sweep lashed the horse across the head and back. The animal
sprang forward with a snort, narrowly clearing the gate-post, and
plunged off into the darkness.

"Stop!" cried the officer.

So many of Gallegher's acquaintances among the 'longshoremen and mill
hands had been challenged in so much the same manner that Gallegher
knew what would probably follow if the challenge was disregarded. So
he slipped from his seat to the footboard below, and ducked his head.

The three reports of a pistol, which rang out briskly from behind him,
proved that his early training had given him a valuable fund of useful
miscellaneous knowledge.

"Don't you be scared," he said, reassuringly, to the horse; "he's
firing in the air."

The pistol-shots were answered by the impatient clangor of a patrol-
wagon's gong, and glancing over his shoulder Gallegher saw its red and
green lanterns tossing from side to side and looking in the darkness
like the side-lights of a yacht plunging forward in a storm.

"I hadn't bargained to race you against no patrol-wagons," said
Gallegher to his animal; "but if they want a race, we'll give them a
tough tussle for it, won't we?"

Philadelphia, lying four miles to the south, sent up a faint yellow
glow to the sky. It seemed very far away, and Gallegher's braggadocio
grew cold within him at the loneliness of his adventure and the
thought of the long ride before him.

It was still bitterly cold.

The rain and sleet beat through his clothes, and struck his skin with
a sharp chilling touch that set him trembling.

Even the thought of the over-weighted patrol-wagon probably sticking
in the mud some safe distance in the rear, failed to cheer him, and
the excitement that had so far made him callous to the cold died out
and left him weaker and nervous. But his horse was chilled with the
long standing, and now leaped eagerly forward, only too willing to
warm the half-frozen blood in its veins.

"You're a good beast," said Gallegher, plaintively. "You've got more
nerve than me. Don't you go back on me now. Mr. Dwyer says we've got
to beat the town." Gallegher had no idea what time it was as he rode
through the night, but he knew he would be able to find out from a big
clock over a manufactory at a point nearly three-quarters of the
distance from Keppler's to the goal.

He was still in the open country and driving recklessly, for he knew
the best part of his ride must be made outside the city limits.

He raced between desolate-looking corn-fields with bare stalks and
patches of muddy earth rising above the thin covering of snow, truck
farms and brick-yards fell behind him on either side. It was very
lonely work, and once or twice the dogs ran yelping to the gates and
barked after him.

Part of his way lay parallel with the railroad tracks, and he drove
for some time beside long lines of freight and coal cars as they stood
resting for the night. The fantastic Queen Anne suburban stations were
dark and deserted, but in one or two of the block-towers he could see
the operators writing at their desks, and the sight in some way
comforted him.

Once he thought of stopping to get out the blanket in which he had
wrapped himself on the first trip, but he feared to spare the time,
and drove on with his teeth chattering and his shoulders shaking with
the cold.

He welcomed the first solitary row of darkened houses with a faint
cheer of recognition. The scattered lamp-posts lightened his spirits,
and even the badly paved streets rang under the beats of his horse's
feet like music. Great mills and manufactories, with only a night-
watchman's light in the lowest of their many stories, began to take
the place of the gloomy farm-houses and gaunt trees that had startled
him with their grotesque shapes. He had been driving nearly an hour,
he calculated, and in that time the rain had changed to a wet snow,
that fell heavily and clung to whatever it touched. He passed block
after block of trim workmen's houses, as still and silent as the
sleepers within them, and at last he turned the horse's head into
Broad Street, the city's great thoroughfare, that stretches from its
one end to the other and cuts it evenly in two.

He was driving noiselessly over the snow and slush in the street, with
his thoughts bent only on the clock-face he wished so much to see,
when a hoarse voice challenged him from the sidewalk. "Hey, you, stop
there, hold up!" said the voice.

Gallegher turned his head, and though he saw that the voice came from
under a policeman's helmet, his only answer was to hit his horse
sharply over the head with his whip and to urge it into a gallop.

This, on his part, was followed by a sharp, shrill whistle from the
policeman. Another whistle answered it from a street-corner one block
ahead of him. "Whoa," said Gallegher, pulling on the reins. "There's
one too many of them," he added, in apologetic explanation. The horse
stopped, and stood, breathing heavily, with great clouds of steam
rising from its flanks.

"Why in hell didn't you stop when I told you to?" demanded the voice,
now close at the cab's side.

"I didn't hear you," returned Gallegher, sweetly. "But I heard you
whistle, and I heard your partner whistle, and I thought maybe it was
me you wanted to speak to, so I just stopped."

"You heard me well enough. Why aren't your lights lit?" demanded the
voice.

"Should I have 'em lit?" asked Gallegher, bending over and regarding
them with sudden interest.

"You know you should, and if you don't, you've no right to be driving
that cab. I don't believe you're the regular driver, anyway. Where'd
you get it?"

"It ain't my cab, of course," said Gallegher, with an easy laugh.
"It's Luke McGovern's. He left it outside Cronin's while he went in to
get a drink, and he took too much, and me father told me to drive it
round to the stable for him. I'm Cronin's son. McGovern ain't in no
condition to drive. You can see yourself how he's been misusing the
horse. He puts it up at Bachman's livery stable, and I was just going
around there now."

Gallegher's knowledge of the local celebrities of the district
confused the zealous officer of the peace. He surveyed the boy with a
steady stare that would have distressed a less skilful liar, but
Gallegher only shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if from the cold,
and waited with apparent indifference to what the officer would say
next.

In reality his heart was beating heavily against his side, and he felt
that if he was kept on a strain much longer he would give way and
break down. A second snow-covered form emerged suddenly from the
shadow of the houses.

"What is it, Reeder?" it asked.

"Oh, nothing much," replied the first officer.

"This kid hadn't any lamps lit, so I called to him to stop and he
didn't do it, so I whistled to you. It's all right, though. He's just
taking it round to Bachman's. Go ahead," he added, sulkily.

"Get up!" chirped Gallegher. "Good night," he added, over his
shoulder.

Gallegher gave an hysterical little gasp of relief as he trotted away
from the two policemen, and poured bitter maledictions on their heads
for two meddling fools as he went.

"They might as well kill a man as scare him to death," he said, with
an attempt to get back to his customary flippancy. But the effort was
somewhat pitiful, and he felt guiltily conscious that a salt, warm
tear was creeping slowly down his face, and that a lump that would not
keep down was rising in his throat.

"'Tain't no fair thing for the whole police force to keep worrying at
a little boy like me," he said, in shame-faced apology. "I'm not doing
nothing wrong, and I'm half froze to death, and yet they keep a-
nagging at me."

It was so cold that when the boy stamped his feet against the
footboard to keep them warm, sharp pains shot up through his body, and
when he beat his arms about his shoulders, as he had seen real cabmen
do, the blood in his finger-tips tingled so acutely that he cried
aloud with the pain.

He had often been up that late before, but he had never felt so
sleepy. It was as if some one was pressing a sponge heavy with
chloroform near his face, and he could not fight off the drowsiness
that lay hold of him.

He saw, dimly hanging above his head, a round disc of light that
seemed like a great moon, and which he finally guessed to be the
clock-face for which he had been on the look-out. He had passed it
before he realized this; but the fact stirred him into wakefulness
again, and when his cab's wheels slipped around the City Hall corner,
he remembered to look up at the other big clock-face that keeps awake
over the railroad station and measures out the night.

He gave a gasp of consternation when he saw that it was half-past two,
and that there was but ten minutes left to him. This, and the many
electric lights and the sight of the familiar pile of buildings,
startled him into a semi-consciousness of where he was and how great
was the necessity for haste.

He rose in his seat and called on the horse, and urged it into a
reckless gallop over the slippery asphalt. He considered nothing else
but speed, and looking neither to the left nor right dashed off down
Broad Street into Chestnut, where his course lay straight away to the
office, now only seven blocks distant.

Gallegher never knew how it began, but he was suddenly assaulted by
shouts on either side, his horse was thrown back on its haunches, and
he found two men in cabmen's livery hanging at its head, and patting
its sides, and calling it by name. And the other cabmen who have their
stand at the corner were swarming about the carriage, all of them
talking and swearing at once, and gesticulating wildly with their
whips.

They said they knew the cab was McGovern's, and they wanted to know
where he was, and why he wasn't on it; they wanted to know where
Gallegher had stolen it, and why he had been such a fool as to drive
it into the arms of its owner's friends; they said that it was about
time that a cab-driver could get off his box to take a drink without
having his cab run away with, and some of them called loudly for a
policeman to take the young thief in charge.

Gallegher felt as if he had been suddenly dragged into consciousness
out of a bad dream, and stood for a second like a half-awakened
somnambulist.

They had stopped the cab under an electric light, and its glare shone
coldly down upon the trampled snow and the faces of the men around
him.

Gallegher bent forward, and lashed savagely at the horse with his
whip.

"Let me go," he shouted, as he tugged impotently at the reins. "Let me
go, I tell you. I haven't stole no cab, and you've got no right to
stop me. I only want to take it to the _Press_ office," he begged.
"They'll send it back to you all right. They'll pay you for the trip.
I'm not running away with it. The driver's got the collar--he's
'rested--and I'm only a-going to the _Press_ office. Do you hear me?"
he cried, his voice rising and breaking in a shriek of passion and
disappointment. "I tell you to let go those reins. Let me go, or I'll
kill you. Do you hear me? I'll kill you." And leaning forward, the boy
struck savagely with his long whip at the faces of the men about the
horse's head.

Some one in the crowd reached up and caught him by the ankles, and
with a quick jerk pulled him off the box, and threw him on to the
street. But he was up on his knees in a moment, and caught at the
man's hand.

"Don't let them stop me, mister," he cried, "please let me go. I
didn't steal the cab, sir. S'help me, I didn't. I'm telling you the
truth. Take me to the _Press_ office, and they'll prove it to you.
They'll pay you anything you ask 'em. It's only such a little ways
now, and I've come so far, sir. Please don't let them stop me," he
sobbed, clasping the man about the knees. "For Heaven's sake, mister,
let me go!"

The managing editor of the _Press_ took up the india-rubber speaking-
tube at his side, and answered, "Not yet" to an inquiry the night
editor had already put to him five times within the last twenty
minutes.

Then he snapped the metal top of the tube impatiently, and went up-
stairs. As he passed the door of the local room, he noticed that the
reporters had not gone home, but were sitting about on the tables and
chairs, waiting. They looked up inquiringly as he passed, and the city
editor asked, "Any news yet?" and the managing editor shook his head.

The compositors were standing idle in the composing-room, and their
foreman was talking with the night editor.

"Well," said that gentleman, tentatively.

"Well," returned the managing editor, "I don't think we can wait; do
you?"

"It's a half-hour after time now," said the night editor, "and we'll
miss the suburban trains if we hold the paper back any longer. We
can't afford to wait for a purely hypothetical story. The chances are
all against the fight's having taken place or this Hade's having been
arrested."

"But if we're beaten on it--" suggested the chief. "But I don't think
that is possible. If there were any story to print, Dwyer would have
had it here before now."

The managing editor looked steadily down at the floor.

"Very well," he said, slowly, "we won't wait any longer. Go ahead," he
added, turning to the foreman with a sigh of reluctance. The foreman
whirled himself about, and began to give his orders; but the two
editors still looked at each other doubtfully.

As they stood so, there came a sudden shout and the sound of people
running to and fro in the reportorial rooms below. There was the tramp
of many footsteps on the stairs, and above the confusion they heard
the voice of the city editor telling some one to "run to Madden's and
get some brandy, quick."

No one in the composing-room said anything; but those compositors who
had started to go home began slipping off their overcoats, and every
one stood with his eyes fixed on the door.

It was kicked open from the outside, and in the doorway stood a cab-
driver and the city editor, supporting between them a pitiful little
figure of a boy, wet and miserable, and with the snow melting on his
clothes and running in little pools to the floor. "Why, it's
Gallegher," said the night editor, in a tone of the keenest
disappointment.

Gallegher shook himself free from his supporters, and took an unsteady
step forward, his fingers fumbling stiffly with the buttons of his
waistcoat.

"Mr. Dwyer, sir," he began faintly, with his eyes fixed fearfully on
the managing editor, "he got arrested--and I couldn't get here no
sooner, 'cause they kept a-stopping me, and they took me cab from
under me--but--" he pulled the notebook from his breast and held it
out with its covers damp and limp from the rain, "but we got Hade, and
here's Mr. Dwyer's copy."

And then he asked, with a queer note in his voice, partly of dread and
partly of hope, "Am I in time, sir?"

The managing editor took the book, and tossed it to the foreman, who
ripped out its leaves and dealt them out to his men as rapidly as a
gambler deals out cards.

Then the managing editor stooped and picked Gallegher up in his arms,
and, sitting down, began to unlace his wet and muddy shoes.

Gallegher made a faint effort to resist this degradation of the
managerial dignity; but his protest was a very feeble one, and his
head fell back heavily on the managing editor's shoulder.

To Gallegher the incandescent lights began to whirl about in circles,
and to burn in different colors; the faces of the reporters kneeling
before him and chafing his hands and feet grew dim and unfamiliar, and
the roar and rumble of the great presses in the basement sounded far
away, like the murmur of the sea.

And then the place and the circumstances of it came back to him again
sharply and with sudden vividness.

Gallegher looked up, with a faint smile, into the managing editor's
face. "You won't turn me off for running away, will you?" he
whispered.

The managing editor did not answer immediately. His head was bent, and
he was thinking, for some reason or other, of a little boy of his own,
at home in bed. Then he said, quietly, "Not this time, Gallegher."

Gallegher's head sank back comfortably on the older man's shoulder,
and he smiled comprehensively at the faces of the young men crowded
around him. "You hadn't ought to," he said, with a touch of his old
impudence, "'cause--I beat the town."

-THE END-
Richard Harding Davis' short story: Gallegher: A Newspaper Story

GO TO TOP OF SCREEN