CHAPTER V.ON THE TRACK.
An evening train bore Frank Merriwell into St. Joseph. He had learned of a certainty that Hodge had purchased a ticket and taken a train for that city, and he hoped to find Bart there, although he feared he should not.
If Bart kept on for Chicago, as he might do, there was little chance of overtaking him.
After starting, Frank began to realize that such a blind pursuit seemed foolish in the extreme.
His one hope was that Hodge would step off in St. Jo. If Bart did not——
Frank did not like to think of that. And still the conviction that it was more than likely Hodge would continue his flight grew stronger and stronger.
“Well,” muttered Merry, as he stepped off the train, “I’ll make a search for him here. It’s the best I can do.”
He had known all along that he might have stopped Hodge by means of telegrams to the police departments of various places through which the fugitive must pass; but, even though Hodge had taken the money from the grip, Frank’s soul revolted against recovering it by bringing about the erring fellow’s arrest.
Already Bart was on the downward road—the road to ruin! Frank felt certain of that. Was it possible to stop him—to save him? It did not seem possible. It appeared as if Bart’s downfall were complete.
After leaving the station Frank found a policeman and asked a number of questions. Then he proceeded to a hotel, where he registered and left his grip. He examined the register, but Bart’s name was not there. He scarcelyexpected to find it, for something told him Hodge would not register under his own name.
Frank believed he could recognize Bart’s handwriting at a glance, no matter what the name might be, and it was in this manner that he hoped to trace the fugitive.
He set out on a weary round of hotels, examining the register at each one. He could not run over the list of arrivals swiftly, for he knew it was possible Hodge might attempt to disguise his handwriting, as well as assume a fictitious name. This made him scrutinize each signature closely and carefully. It was a tiresome task, but he plodded on, hoping against hope. His nature revolted against such crude detective work, but this did not seem to be a case at which he could work in a systematic manner. If he found Hodge it would be a case of good fortune as much as anything else, and he knew it.
At last he had visited all the hotels and his search had been unrewarded.
“It’s no use!” he muttered, in disgust. “A detective would laugh at me for trying to find a fugitive in such a manner. Yes, he would laugh at me for thinking a chap who had just stolen more than eight hundred dollars would stop so soon after taking to flight.
“Still, to me there seems two reasons why Hodge may have stopped here. If he had not taken money he might not have thought it necessary to get further away. If he did take it, he may have thought it would be easier to stop him by means of telegrams if he continued his flight by train than it would if he dropped off here and lost himself in this city.”
This reasoning did not give Merry much comfort. He began to realize that he was hungry. He had not felt the need of food before, so eager had he been to investigate the hotel registers.
Coming to what seemed like a respectable restaurant, he went in and gave an order.
He sat down near a table at which two men were eating. He noticed that, although they made a display of flashy jewelry, they were rather tough-looking chaps, decidedly sporty in their dress. One of them had a thick neck and close-cropped hair, while his face resembled that of a bulldog. The other addressed him as “Mul,” or “Muldoon.”
It soon became evident that the other man’s name was Rafferty. He had long, slim hands, with fingers that squirmed in a snakish manner. His eyes were restless and watchful.
Frank had a theory that most men betray the profession they follow by the language they use. While he was waiting for his order to be served he unconsciously listened to the talk of the two men.
“Well, Muldoon,” said the fellow with the snaky fingers. “I’ve taken your tip and shoved up a good wad on the sucker.”
“An’ yer all right, my boy,” asserted the owner of the bulldog face. “Dat chap ain’t so much of a sucker as some folks take him fer. Jest ’cause he comes from Chicago dey gives him dat name.”
“You feel sure he’ll brand the Maverick?”
“Do I? Well, say, ef I had a million I’d put it on dat. If he ever lands dat left maul on Kansas Jim’s neck der Maverick won’t know wot hit him.”
“There is no cold deck in this game, is there? It’s to be a square game with no holdout?”
“Say, want me ter tell yer somethin’?”
“Sure.”
“Der Maverick’s up ag’in it.”
“No?”
“Dat’s straight.”
“How do you know? Won’t he have a show?”
“He’ll never do up Hanks.”
“Then he’s playing against marked cards?”
“It’s dis way: It’ll be on der level jest as long as it can be, but if dey see Jim’s gittin’ der woist of it—well, he’ll be t’rowed down.”
“How?”
“Dunno yit.”
“How do you know so much?”
“I’m on der inside, I told yer. I can’t give erway der boys wot puts me onter der game, but dey’ve tole me ter tip me friends off ter lay their long green on der Sucker.”
“Well, Mul, I don’t forget this turn if the game does run my way. I’ll see that you get a chance to go against Tommy the Terror, just as I promised, if I rake in the chips to-night. I don’t suppose there is any danger that the police will interfere?”
“Well, dere was danger, but I rudder t’ink der cops has been put off der scent. Dey dunno jest when der little bout’s goin’ ter come off.”
“But they must have seen the sports coming into town to-day. Lots of them have struck St. Jo. within the last ten hours.”
“I should guess yes! It’ll be a good t’ing fer der club.”
“I don’t believe there is any other city in the United States where this sort of game could be played to a finish. It’s to be a regular prize fight under pretension of having a private sparring exhibition.”
“Dat’s wot.”
“But the way the sports have come into town should be enough to tell the police that something more than usual is to take place.”
“Aw! der perlice here are dead slow! Den dey don’tcare much, anyway. Was dere menny sports come on der train wid you, Rafferty?”
“Several. One young fellow had got onto the fight somehow, and he was dead crazy to see it, but didn’t know how to get there. I think he had a roll to blow, too.”
“Well, why didn’t yer give him der tip if yer t’ought he was on der level?”
“I did. I sent him to Mike Kelley and told him Kelley would get him in.”
Frank had decided that the fellow with the bulldog face was a slugger and prize fighter, while his companion, the owner of the squirming fingers, was a gambler. The language of the men had revealed this plainly enough.
“Did yer give der young duck der word?”
“Yes. I told him to say ‘upper cut’ to Kelley and shove out his fiver.”
“That was all right. Who was yer friend?”
“I didn’t get his name. He was carrying a heavy grip, with a long slip of paper pasted on the side of it. On the paper were printed the words ‘True Blue,’ but I don’t know what that meant.”
It was impossible for Frank Merriwell to repress a start. He came near leaping to his feet with an exclamation of satisfaction, but quickly closed his mouth and dropped back into his seat.
“On the track at last!” he mentally exulted. “That young fellow who seemed to have a roll to blow and who was so eager to see the prize fight was Bart Hodge!”
Frank Merriwell was on the alert now, his ears open to catch every word of the conversation to which up to that point he had listened with the idlest sort of interest.
Frank wondered why he had not thought of tracing Bart by means of the strip pasted on Hodge’s grip. In a moment, however, it seemed natural enough that he hadnot thought of such a thing, for it had not seemed probable a fellow who had just stolen over eight hundred dollars would travel around with a conspicuous label by which he might be spotted and recognized. It was rather remarkable that Hodge had not removed the words in some manner from his traveling bag.
And Hodge had acted as if he had a “roll to blow!” In the midst of his feeling of satisfaction, Frank was stricken by a sharp pain. He was glad to be on the track of Bart, but the evidence of his former friend’s complete depravity filled him with distress.
Hodge had taken the money, and he was bound to have a gay time while it lasted. At least, everything seemed to indicate that.
Merry fancied that Bart had given up at last in his attempt to be honest and upright. For a long time he had struggled against his natural inclinations and against the unjust suspicions of others. He had grown tired fighting fate, for it had seemed that fate was determined that he should go wrong. No one save Frank Merriwell had shown absolute confidence in him.
Merriwell had ever seemed to believe that Bart would turn out well in the end, but now it appeared that his faith had been sadly at fault and his confidence woefully misplaced.
Frank could understand how a proud, sensitive fellow like Hodge could be driven to dishonesty by suspicion and mistrust. But there was one thing Merry could not understand.
How had Hodge smothered his conscience and his sense of justice and gratitude enough to permit him to rob the best and truest friend he had ever known?
That was a puzzle to Frank. He did not like to think of it. He could not bear to believe he had been entirely wrong in his estimate of Bart’s character.
Somehow Frank had hoped in the face of all the evidence of Bart’s culpability that it was not really true—that Hodge had not taken the money.
But now it seemed there could no longer be a doubt of it. This gambler Rafferty had fallen in with Hodge, and had given him a “tip” concerning the proper manner to get to the prize fight that was to take place in St. Jo.
Hodge had seemed to have a roll and he was aiming straight in the proper direction to get rid of it. Having cut clear from Frank, it was plain he was seeking the low and vicious.
Although a youth who could “handle his dukes” and take care of himself in a fight, Frank Merriwell thought very little of prize fights and prize fighters. He regarded professional pugilism as brutal, and the “sports” who followed it up and took delight in it as a low type of humanity. It was his belief that such affairs should be prevented by law, and the participants in them should be severely punished by fines and imprisonment.
Not that Frank wished the encounters stopped for the sake of the principals, but because he believed such spectacles aroused the worst instincts in the witnesses of them and tended to lower and degrade human beings who saw them.
Frank knew there was not a little that was cruel in Bart Hodge, but he had suppressed this instinct in his endeavor to model after Merry. He was one, however, who would have no mercy on an enemy, should it happen that that enemy fell into his power. And always had he seemed to take great satisfaction in a square standing fight.
Merry thought of his first battle with Hodge one moonlight night in an old pasture at Fardale. That fight had not been finished, but Frank recalled how like a fiend the black-haired boy had struggled. Since that time he hadseen Bart in many encounters, and always Hodge had fought with the same terrible fierceness, as if he was burning with a desire to kill his antagonist.
Such a fellow would take pleasure in witnessing a bloody and brutal prize fight—a fight to a finish.
Somehow Frank’s sympathy for Hodge lessened. Had Bart taken the money because he was in need of it, had he taken it to pay debts, had he taken it with the hope of going somewhere and starting in business for himself, then Frank could have been more lenient. But for Hodge to seem to hasten with the stolen money straight to the companionship of “sports,” gamblers, prize fighters and men of that order—it was too much!
“These men must not get away,” thought Frank. “I must follow them. I must find out where this fight is to take place and I must get into it.”
The waiter brought his order.
“If I could find this man Kelley of whom they were speaking,” thought Merry. “I know how to get there through him. Five dollars and the password, ‘upper cut,’ would do the trick.”
He began to eat in haste, for he heard Muldoon remark:
“We’d better be hustling, Rafferty. Der game will open at ten o’clock.”
“I’ll be ready to go in a minute,” said the gambler. “Here, waiter, what’s the check?”
Frank was very hungry, but he would have left his food untouched rather than to lose sight of them then. He bolted down a few mouthfuls and drank the cup of coffee he had ordered.
By that time Muldoon and Rafferty had risen and were preparing to go.
Frank called the waiter the moment the two men started for the door.
“Check—quick!” he exclaimed. “Got to catch a train. Didn’t know it was so late.”
The waiter gave him his check and he paid it in a hurry, flinging down a quarter extra, and, grabbing his hat, bolted for the door.
Out on the street he was relieved to see Rafferty and Muldoon a short distance away, walking rapidly.
Frank followed them.
“I rather think you will lead me straight to Hodge,” he thought, exultantly. “If this was not a piece of luck! And it came just when I seemed wholly off the scent.”
Neither of the men seemed to imagine they were followed, and so Frank had no trouble in shadowing them.
At length the men turned into a side street. There it was somewhat more difficult to keep track of them, but Merry shadowed them without seeming to be doing anything of the sort. He kept track of all their twists and turns, unfamiliar with the city, though he was, and, at last, he saw them enter a saloon by a side door.
Frank was not far behind them. He noticed that others were flocking into that saloon by the same side entrance.
Inside, the saloon was packed. Men were smoking, drinking, swearing and exchanging sporting talk. Most of them were loudly dressed, and the saloon lights glinted on many huge diamonds, of which there was a decidedly vulgar display. A good number of the men were of the thick-necked, beefy sort.
It was such a saloon as Frank would regard as a “beer joint,” but beer was not the beverage there that night. It was either whisky, champagne, or nothing—and where was the man who was taking nothing?
“Kansas Jim will win in a walk.”
“Go on, you bluffer! He ain’t in it with the Sucker!”
“Hanks won’t last three rounds.”
“What have you got that says so besides your mouth?”
“I’ve got good horse sense.”
“But no rino. Back your talk—back it up!”
“Where’s your money?”
“Here—right here.”
The speaker flourished a “roll.”
This talk did not seem to attract much attention, for everybody seemed talking in a similar manner. One man was pounding on the bar. He had a huge red nose and a diamond in his shirt bosom that was as large as an acorn.
“I’m Ned Carter of Kansas City!” he cried. “I reckon you gents know me! If any of you has money to throw away just back the Maverick. That steer will get branded deep to-night.”
“And I’m Col. McGraw of Topeka!” roared a tall man, who wore a slouch hat thrust far back on his head, and whose drooping mustache and long imperial were iron-gray. “I don’t give a dern whether you gents know me or not; but I’ll bet a cool thousand even that the Maverick will put the Sucker to sleep inside of fifteen rounds if he’s given a square deal.”
“Where’s your long green?”
“Money talks!”
“Put up, colonel!”
“Or shut up, colonel.”
“Oh, I’m here to back my talk,” declared the Topeka man, fishing into an inside pocket. “Here’s the—— Well, I’m blowed!”
“What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been touched! Gents, I’ve been robbed of five thousand dollars I took to back the Maverick!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the crowd. “Colonel, it won’t go! You are a squealer!”
To this the Topeka man roared a vigorous protest, but his words were drowned.
Frank’s breath was almost taken away.
“Well, this beats!” he gasped. “It must be the police of this city are dead slow, or else they are standing in with the parties who are running this fight. If they were not, they’d be dead certain to catch on.”
He looked around for Rafferty and Muldoon, but could see nothing of them.
“I’m certain they came in here,” he muttered. “They must be somewhere in this crowd.” He moved about to find them, being obliged to crowd his way about.
“Hi, there, young feller! ye’re treadin’ on my toes!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Frank, as politely as he could.
“Waal, ye’d better!” growled the big man, glaring at him. “What’re you in here fer, anyhow? Ye’re nothin’ but a boy. This ain’t no place fer you.”
Frank attempted to move away, but the arm of the man shot out, and Merry was collared.
“You go home to your mammy, youngster,” advised the fellow, starting to drag Frank to the door.
“Toss him out, McGinty!”
“Give him the bounce, slugger!”
“Spank the mother’s boy and send him home.”
“Does his mother know he’s out?”
The door was reached, and the big fellow started to swing Frank round to get a better hold of him. At that moment Merry broke away with a sudden twist and yank, caught the surprised ruffian behind, gave him a strong shove, and planted his foot with all his strength under the tail of the man’s coat.
McGinty, the slugger, was fairly lifted by that kick and sent spinning through the swinging doors, which opened before him and closed behind him.