The bright light within illumined the drawn curtains of the Lexington Avenue flat, casting on them a filigree shadow of the filmy lace draperies, convincing Nick Carter before he had entered that Sadie Badger had not bolted.
Nick’s ring was quickly answered, moreover, by the woman herself. He saw the evil light that flashed up for an instant in her intense black eyes when she saw and recognized him, which further assured him that he not only had sized up the circumstances correctly, but also that her designs were precisely what he suspected.
Sadie Badger greeted him with a smile, however, placing her forefinger on her lips and glancing significantly up the stairs.
"Not too loud, Bosey, till we’re inside and the door closed," she said quietly, drawing back for him to enter. "I’m a bit leary of those ginks on the next floor. What they don’t know won’t hurt them. If they get wise to too much, it might hurt me."
Nick nodded approvingly, with a grim smile on his made-up, hangdog face, and he took the chair to which she pointed. He noticed that her hat, veil, and a long black cloak were lying on a sofa, as if she had just come in, or intended going out.
"That’s good judgment, kid," he replied, in the same husky voice he had assumed the previous night. "There’s nothing lost by keeping others in the dark."
"Right you are, Bosey."[Pg 36]"Was you looking for me to-night?"
"Sure thing," nodded Sadie, sitting opposite. "You said you’d come, didn’t you? I always take the word of a pal. Have you seen the newspapers?"
"All of them, kid. I nailed them as soon as the story was out. But the dicks ain’t wise to anything. You’ve still got the stuff safe in the house?"
"No, not here, now," said Sadie. "That was too long a chance. I’ve put it in care of some friends, but I can get it any hour we want it."
"I dunno about that," Nick demurred, with manifest suspicion.
"You can bank on me and what I tell you, Bosey, and that goes," Sadie hastened to assure him. "I wouldn’t double cross a pal. You can meet my friends and see the plunder for yourself, if you like."
"How’s that?" questioned Nick, though he saw plainly to what she immediately was leading.
"I’ve got to go out there," Sadie glibly explained. "I’d have been gone before now, Bosey, if I hadn’t been looking for you. I had a hunch you would show up quite early, so I decided to wait for you."
"What’s the game?" Nick questioned, still pretending to be a bit doubtful.
It convinced Sadie Badger that he did not suspect her deeper game, and that he would walk blindly into the trap she and Goulard had laid for him.
"There’s another job on, Bosey," she replied, with voice lowered.
"What kind of a job, kid?"
"Same kind. A crib up in Riverside Drive. It has been sized up by another pal of mine, and a good haul can be made, but it will take three or four of us to pull it off. I’ve told him about you, Bosey, and insisted that you be let in on it. I’ve not forgotten last night, you see," Sadie added expressively.
"You’re all right, kid," Nick grimly nodded. "But when is the trick to be turned?"
"To-morrow night. I’ve got to go out and talk it over with the other this evening. You’re to go with me, if the scheme hits you all right."
"Sure it hits me all right," Nick quickly declared. "But where do we go to see them?"
"A good piece out of town."
"By train?"
"No. Taxi."
"Ain’t that taking a chance?" growled Nick, still seeming doubtful. "I don’t bank strong on chauffeurs."
"The one I employ is all right," said Sadie, with sinister earnestness. "He is one of the gang. We can trust him the limit."
"Well, that’s more like it," said Nick. "What’s his name?"
"Fallon."
"How can you get at him?"
"By telephone," said Sadie, with a glance at an instrument on a stand in one corner. "He’s expecting to hear from me. I’ve been waiting only for you to show up, Bosey, and say you would go."
Nick was very willing to go and he saw no reason to defer doing so, the woman’s assurance convincing him that she felt that she held the ribbons and that he suspected no ulterior designs. Nick had not a doubt, moreover, as to whom he was to meet.[Pg 37]
"Sure, kid, I’ll go," he said, after a moment. "Why wouldn’t I go?"
"No reason, Bosey."
"Get next to the phone, then, and fetch on your man. We can’t start too soon to suit me."
"That’s the stuff!" cried Sadie; with another momentary gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. "I’ll have him here with his buzz car in five minutes."
She arose with the last and hastened to the telephone.
Nick fished out a black cigar and lit it, smoking indifferently until the woman resumed her seat. He then continued the conversation much along the foregoing lines, until the noise of the approaching taxicab was heard by both, when Sadie started up and exclaimed:
"He’s here, Bosey. That’s Fallon."
"So I heard."
"I’ll get into my cloak and lid."
"Stop a bit, kid," said Nick, checking her and lurching forward in his chair. "Lemme have a look at him before we start."
"What’s that for?" questioned Sadie quickly.
"Only because I like to see who I’m in with," Nick explained indifferently. "Call him in and give him your directions. That’ll be enough."
Sadie Badger saw nothing for him to gain, if she complied with his wish, feeling that she had all the best of him. She shrugged her broad, shapely shoulders and laughed, then stepped to the front door and called Fallon into the house.
"He is here, Bosey," she remarked, when the burly chauffeur followed her into the room. "Shake hands with Bosey Magee, Bill, who is going out with me. You’ll find him all right."
Fallon grinned and complied.
"The more the better, old top," he remarked carelessly.
"Glad to know you," Nick growled cordially.
"Take us out to Corson’s place, Bill, and get there lively," said Sadie, in compliance with Nick’s suggestion.
"I can make it in twenty minutes," Fallon nodded.
"Good enough. I’ll get into my rags and veil and be with you in a couple of minutes."
"I’ll wait for you outside."
"Go ahead, then. We’ll not be long."
Fallon swung round and swaggered out of the house, returning to his seat in the taxicab.
Sadie Badger arose and took her cloak from the sofa.
When she turned to put it on—she found Nick Carter confronting her, with a revolver thrust under her very nose.
"If you speak, Sadie, this will speak louder," he said sternly, gripping her by the shoulder. "Not a sound, mind you, or you’ll get all that’s coming to you."
The woman turned as white as the knot of lace at her throat.
"Heavens!" she muttered, with lips twitching. "You mean——”
"Silence!" Nick sternly hissed. "I’m wise to the whole business. Our partnership in crime is ended, also your little game. If you utter a sound to warn Fallon, I’ll send you to prison for twenty years."
"Curse you, Carter, I——”
"Hush! Ah, Chick, you’re here!"
Chick Carter had darted quietly in from a rear room.[Pg 38]
Sadie Badger had dropped on the sofa, as pale as if death-stricken.
"I picked the lock of the back door," Chick whispered. "Is the way open?"
"Wide open," said Nick, whipping out a pair of handcuffs. "Get into her garments. We must be out in another minute. I’ll fix the woman."
Sadie Badger, with the detective’s threat ringing in her ears, which she knew only too well he would execute, collapsed completely and offered no resistance.
Nick handcuffed her with her arms behind her, then tied a bandage securely over her mouth. He then marched her into a closet in the adjoining room and locked the door.
When he returned, after less than a minute, he found Chick clad in the woman’s hat and veil, with his figure almost completely enveloped in her long, black cloak.
"Capital!" said Nick, surveying him. "You’ll get by hands down."
"I think so."
"Ready?"
"As a rivet."
Nick switched out the electric light.
Fallon saw the glow vanish from the curtained windows. Less than two minutes had passed since he returned to his seat.
He merely glanced at the two figures that came from the house, quickly crossing the sidewalk in the darkness and entering the open taxicab. The door was closed with a bang, and another moment saw them speeding away—whither Sadie Badger had directed.
Five minutes later a policeman, acting under instructions Nick had given him earlier, entered the flat and removed the detective’s partner in crime to the precinct station.
It was half past six when Fallon slowed down in the darkness bf the narrow road into which he had turned, immediately drawing up at one side of it. He stopped the motor, then sprang down and opened the cab door.
"We’ll have to walk to the house, Sadie," he growled, addressing the veiled figure in the opposite corner. "I’ll not risk running the taxi over this bum road in the dark. It’s only fifty yards to the house. We can walk it."
"Sure!" said Nick. "Come on, kid."
Fallon drew back to let them out, turning to gaze up the narrow, deserted road.
Nick stepped in front of him, drawing his revolver.
"Put your hands behind you, Fallon," he said sternly. "You are under arrest. Take it easy and save yourself worse trouble."
Fallon staggered and glanced back over his shoulder in search of Sadie Badger. The hat, veil, and cloak had been discarded by the figure behind him, and he found himself gazing at the face of Chick Carter.
"Good heavens!" he gasped involuntarily. "What am I up against?"
"You know, Fallon, without my telling you," said Nick. "The game is up, and we’re out to get the entire gang. We’re going to do it, too."
"I guess that’s no fairy tale." Fallon knuckled with a sickly smile. "You’re the worst ever, Carter, the very worst. Well, I’m not in so bad, at that. Go as far as you like."
"Put bracelets on him, Chick, and we’ll secure him with[Pg 39]another pair to one of the taxicab wheels," Nick directed. "That will hold him till we return."
"Let me sit inside," said Fallon. "I’ll not bolt."
"I shall feel a little more easy if I don’t take the chance," Nick dryly answered. "You’ll not suffer greatly, and it won’t be for long."
Fallon offered no further protest, and was left secured as described.
"Now, Chick, having landed a couple of the hirelings, we’ll get after the master," said Nick, as they turned away. "Unless I am much mistaken, we to-night shall see the last of Gaston Goulard, in so far as his criminal career is concerned. He is booked to pay the penalty."
"That’s likely to be his life for having killed Batty Lang."
"It’s more than probable. Come on."
"You expect to find Helen Mantell here, I infer."
"I haven’t a doubt of it," said Nick. "Be quiet, now, and have your guns ready. I’ll lead the way."
They had moved on and were picking their way up the narrow road. Through the intervening trees, the outlines of the old Corson house could be dimly seen. A solitary light appeared at one of the side windows.
Nick led the way in that direction, moving noiselessly over the damp sod. It proved to be the window of a dining room, as he could see between the curtain and the casing, though the roller shade was drawn completely down.
No other precautions had been taken by Gaston Goulard, however, so sure was he that the expected taxicab would bring only Fallon, Sadie Badger, and Nick, with the latter up against odds that he could not possibly oppose.
Though none of them were entirely visible, Nick could see that there were several persons in the room. While he gazed, trying to identify one or more of them, he heard the voice of the crook he was chiefly seeking.
"I’ll not stand for any further objections, Mrs. Mantell," Goulard was harshly saying. "You write what I dictate to your husband, stating the terms I direct, or I’ll——”
"Don’t you do anything of the kind, Mrs. Mantell," interrupted a voice that Nick instantly knew to be Patsy’s. "Let this rascal collect the ransom he demands as best he can. He’ll not harm you as long as he sees any show of getting it. Don’t write a line, or——”
"You keep quiet, or I’ll silence you in a way you’ll not fancy," Goulard fiercely cut in. "I’ll put you away, Garvan, as well as Nick Carter, if I do nothing else. You listen to me, woman, and——”
Nick did not wait to hear more. He touched Chick’s elbow and continued on toward the rear of the house, where the door of the kitchen met his gaze.
"We have them where we want them, Chick, if we can enter quietly," he whispered.
"Dead to rights," Chick nodded.
"There is no lock on the door. It may be hooked or bolted on the inside. No, by Jove, it is not. They were cocksure of their game, all right."
Nick had tried the door and found that he could open it. He did so, glancing at Chick, and both stepped into the kitchen.
The only light came through a doorway in the near hall, that of the dining room.
The voice of Goulard again could be heard, addressing the abducted woman and rising loud and harsh with his[Pg 40]threats and commands. It served to completely drown the stealthy steps in the hall.
Suddenly it stopped short, as if the miscreant’s tongue had been palsied, and then came a shriek of dismay that was bloodcurdling in its intensity.
Goulard saw Nick and Chick in the open door, with hard-set faces and drawn revolvers.
A shout came from Patsy, bound hand and foot to a chair.
A scream of relief broke from Helen Mantell, seated white and helpless in one corner.
Mullen, Sampson, and Jim Corson, with jaws suddenly dropping, stared as if they beheld two ghosts.
"Sit still, all of you," Nick calmly commanded. "I will shoot the first man who shows fight or makes a move in that direction."
Only one man did so—Goulard.
A vision of the electric chair must have leaped up in his mind. For his face turned as gray as ashes, and he appeared to choose the quicker fate. He whipped out a revolver, clapped the muzzle against his ribs, and fired.
The thundering report fairly shook the house.
Goulard pitched face forward on the floor, shot through the heart.
It was the last step of a downward career, the last act of a man gone hopelessly to the bad.
The arrest of the others was easily accomplished, with nothing more sensational than imprecations and curses. Nine o’clock that evening saw all that remained of the gang securely lodged in the Tombs.
The same hour saw Helen Mantell restored to her husband’s arms, and the cloud of fear that had hung over the Mantell mansion was dispelled forever.
Though uninjured by the experience she had suffered, Helen could only state that, after riding away with the man she had supposed to be her father-in-law, he had almost immediately seized her and plunged a needle into her neck, evidently impregnated with some powerful and quick-acting drug. She knew no more until she revived in the old Corson place, scarce a half hour before Nick Carter’s arrival.
The gratitude of the Mantells, as well as their reward to the detectives for their splendid work, were all that the Carters could ask, and Patsy made sure that Frank Steel got his for the services rendered.
The crooks suffered the extreme penalty for their crime, including Nick’s partner in knavery—but the detective made sure that the Buckley plunder was restored to its owner.
It was found in the secret cellar under the Corson stable—with the hidden fruits of several previous robberies.
"Taken as a whole," Nick Carter remarked that evening; "it was the round-up and wind-up of a very bad gang."
THE END.
"The Mystery of the Crossed Needles; or, Nick Carter and the Yellow Tong," will be the title of the long, complete story which you will find in the next issue, No. 151, of theNick Carter Stories, out July 31st. In this interesting narrative the famous detective matches wits with a clever Chinese crook, and throughout the story there is a constant mental battle between the man of the Orient[Pg 41]and the man of the Occident. Then, too, you will also find the usual installment of the serial now running, together with several interesting articles.
Sheridan of the U. S. Mail.By RALPH BOSTON.
(This interesting story was commenced in No. 148 ofNick Carter Stories. Back numbers can always be obtained from your news dealer or the publishers.)
Judge Lawrence opened the case for the defense by assuring the jury that it would take but a few minutes to present all his evidence. The first witness counsel for the defense placed on the stand was the prisoner himself. In as few words as possible, Owen told how he had incurred the enmity of Samuel Coggswell by exposing the latter’s plot to tamper with Judge Lawrence’s mail. He explained that for the same reason he had also aroused the animosity of Carrier Smithers, of Branch X Y.
"Our next witness will be Carrier John Smithers," announced Judge Lawrence, when Owen had finished.
Smithers, sullen and hostile, glared at his questioner as the latter asked quietly: "You and Carrier Sheridan occupy adjoining rooms in a boarding house, do you not, Mr. Smithers?"
"We do."
"And you were off duty and in your room at the boarding house the day the inspectors visited the house and searched Sheridan’s trunk?"
"Yes, I was; but if you’re trying to infer—\-\-\" began the witness angrily.
"Never mind what I’m trying to infer, Mr. Smithers," interrupted the lawyer gently. "Step down, please, unless the district attorney wishes to cross-examine; I’m through with you."
He turned to the jury with, a pleasant smile. "But one more witness; then our case is finished. I shall now call Mr. Alfred Adams."
As Mr. Adams, a gray-haired, bespectacled man, took the stand, Jake Hines stared at him in astonishment. Who could this fellow be? Jake had never seen him before, and the name suggested nothing to him. He wondered what the calling of this witness could mean.
"Mr. Adams," began counsel for the defense, very softly, "will you please tell the jury what your occupation is?"
"I am a postal clerk employed at the registry window of Branch Post Office D E."
"At Branch D E. That’s the branch from which the package was mailed," explained the lawyer. "And how long have you been employed there, Mr. Adams?"
"For seventeen years," replied the gray-haired witness proudly.
"Seventeen years! That’s a long time, Mr. Adams. Have you made many mistakes in your work during that period?"
"Not a single mistake, sir," replied the postal clerk, still more proudly, and added, with a smile: "The boys at the branch call me ‘Accurate’ Adams."
"An enviable nickname," said Judge Lawrence. "Now,[Pg 42]tell me, sir, is it your custom to weigh all letters and packages that are handed in at your window for registry?"
"Yes, sir; we are required to do that."
"It is a precaution no registry clerk overlooks?"
"Yes, sir. You see, the rules require us to see that letters and packages are sufficiently stamped before we make out a receipt for them. If the letter or package is overweight, we call the sender’s attention to the fact, and he must supply the deficient postage before we will accept it."
"I see. Then it would not be possible for a man to hand you a sealed package weighing over seven ounces, and bearing only three two-cent stamps and a ten-cent stamp for registration—you wouldn’t give him his registry receipt under such circumstances?"
"Certainly not, sir," replied the postal clerk. "The package, being sealed, would have to go as first-class mail; and if it weighed a fraction more than seven ounces it would require sixteen cents postage in addition to the registry fee."
"Thank you, Mr. Adams," said counsel for the defense, opening a wooden box and producing a small pair of official post-office scales. "Now, will you please take these scales and this watch and tell the jury how much the watch weighs?"
"Exactly five ounces, sir," replied the witness, after he had carried out these instructions.
"And now please weigh this leather watchcase, and the box it was sent in. What is their combined weight?"
"Two and a half ounces, sir."
"Thank you. So the watch, the leather case, and the box together would weigh seven and a half ounces, and if sent by first-class mail would require sixteen cents postage, and an additional ten cents for registry, would they not?"
"They certainly would."
"And the empty leather case and the box alone would require just six cents in postage?"
"Of course."
"Very good," said the lawyer, with a chuckle. "Now, take a look at this wrapper—the wrapper which was around the package from which my client is alleged to have stolen the watch—and tell the jury how many stamps you find there, Mr. Adams."
"Three two-cent stamps and a ten-cent stamp," announced the witness.
"Consequently the package, when it was handed in at your window for registry could not have contained the watch, could it, Mr. Adams?" demanded Judge Lawrence, looking triumphantly toward the jury.
"It positively could not, sir," replied the postal clerk. "Otherwise when I weighed it I should have noticed the discrepancy in postage."
"Well, for the love of Mike!" muttered Jake Hines, his face turning the color of chalk. "Gee! What a fierce break!"
Fifteen minutes later a taxicab drew up in front of the headquarters of the Samuel J. Coggswell Association, and a young man jumped out, dashed frantically into the clubhouse, and up the stairs.
"Well, Jake?" demanded Boss Coggswell, as the young man burst into the room.
"The whole thing’s busted, boss!" gasped Hines, the sweat streaming down his face. "Sheridan’s acquitted! We made a bad break not puttin’ enough stamps on the[Pg 43]package, and they’ve got Bill Warren and the pawnbroker’s clerk on the rack now, tryin’ to make ’em squeal."
"Holy smoke!" gasped Coggswell, jumping up from his chair. "That sounds bad, Jake—very bad. Do you suppose those fellows will squeal?"
Hines nodded gloomily. "I’m afraid so, governor. That pawnbroker’s clerk is a white-livered rat; it won’t take long to break down his nerve; and Bill Warren ain’t much to be depended on when his own hide’s in danger. I’m afraid we’re in bad this time, boss—up against it for fair."
For five minutes Samuel J. Coggswell agitatedly paced the floor. Suddenly he halted and turned to Hines, a queer look on his face.
"Jake," he said, "you’re looking bad—very bad, indeed, my boy. You need a change of climate—a little trip for your health. Do you understand?"
"You mean you want me to beat it, governor?"
"Yes, at once! Better start right now to pack your suit case. If you need any money I’ll sign a check for any amount you want. The bank isn’t closed yet."
Hines nodded gloomily. "Yes, I guess you’re right. I’d better go. If those fellers squeal—and I’m pretty sure they will—New York’s no place for me just now. But how about yourself, boss? What are you goin’ to do?"
"Oh, I’ll stay, Jake—stay and face the music," replied Coggswell, a smile of resignation on his face. "As long as you’re safe, I don’t care much what happens to me."
Hines would have been more touched by this unselfishness on the part of his chief if he had not observed that the latter’s ears were wagging furiously while he spoke.
As Jake Hines tremulously informed Boss Coggswell, the jury had brought in a verdict of "Not guilty" in the case of Owen Sheridan. That one little slip on the part of the conspirators—their failure to put on the package sufficient stamps to cover the weight of the watch it was supposed to contain—enabled Judge Lawrence to convince the jurors that his client was the victim of a "frame-up."
In his summing up he showed how the wholesale liquor dealer, William Warren, could easily have deceived the two reputable business men who testified that they had seen the watch placed in the package. He pointed out that both of these witnesses had admitted that during the walk to the post office the package had been in Warren’s pocket. How simple for him to have had a duplicate package in the same pocket, and hand it in at the registry window instead of the box which contained the watch.
The jury deliberated less than ten minutes before they acquitted the accused carrier. Later that day the pawnbroker’s clerk, after a long and grueling examination, broke down, and confessed that he had committed perjury when he had sworn that Owen had pledged the watch.
Carrier Sheridan had not been in the pawnshop at all that day, he admitted. The watch had been pawned by Bill Warren himself, who had offered him a hundred dollars to swear that Owen had conducted the transaction. As he knew the letter carrier by sight, it had been an easy matter for the pawnbroker’s clerk to pick him[Pg 44]out unhesitatingly from a group of twenty other carriers, and thus satisfy the post-office inspectors that he was telling the truth.
This was not the only confession extracted that day. Warren, the wholesale liquor dealer, realizing that he was "in bad," decided to make things easier for himself by "blowing the whole game." He swore that he had done this thing at the request of Jake Hines. There were certain reasons why he could not afford to lose Hines’ good will, and when the politician had come to him and asked him to do this favor, he had not dared to refuse.
Carrier Smithers, possessing more nerve than these other conspirators, could not be made to admit that he had placed the pawn ticket in Sheridan’s trunk. He preserved his taciturn, defiant air throughout the examination, and came from the ordeal smilingly triumphant.
Judge Lawrence and Owen Sheridan were very well satisfied, however, with the result of their efforts. The latter grasped his client’s hand fervently, and said:
"Let me congratulate you, Sheridan. Your own cleverness has saved you from jail and enabled us to turn the tables on our enemies. We wouldn’t have stood a ghost of a show if it hadn’t been for that happy thought of yours about the stamps on the package.
"And now," he added, a gleam in his keen eyes, "we are going after those rascals hot and heavy."
A responsive gleam in Owen’s eyes showed how greatly this idea appealed to him. "Yes," he said confidently, "I guess we’ve got Boss Coggswell where we want him now. This means the finish of that grafter."
"I’m not quite so sure of that," replied the judge, with a whimsical smile. "Don’t forget that friend Samuel is a pretty slippery customer. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if he managed to wriggle out of this. I think we’ll be able to put Jake Hines behind bars without any trouble, but I’m afraid we’re not going to have such an easy task convicting his master—not yet, at least."
And the lawyer proved to be a true prophet as far as Samuel J. Coggswell was concerned. When, later that day, reporters from all the daily papers thronged the clubhouse to interview the boss, they found that gentleman smiling and apparently very much at his ease.
"Mr. Coggswell," a newspaper man said bluntly, "we understand that you are going to be indicted for conspiracy. You are accused of being responsible for a frame-up to send a young letter carrier named Sheridan to prison."
The district leader shook his head deprecatingly. "Nothing to it, boys—nothing to it. The rumor is absolutely without foundation, I assure you. Why should a grand jury seek to indict me? It is preposterous to suppose that I had anything to do with the infamous attempt to railroad young Sheridan. On the contrary, I am very friendly toward the man, and I’m glad that he got off—very glad, indeed."
"But, Mr. Coggswell," the newspaper man insisted, "they have proof that Jake Hines, your confidential man, was the moving spirit in that conspiracy."
"Ah!" exclaimed the politician, with a sad smile. "Poor Jake! Poor Jake! By the way, has anybody seen him lately?"
"No," answered the reporter. "I hear that detectives with a warrant for his arrest have been searching all over town for him in vain. It is understood that he[Pg 45]has fled. That is why, Mr. Coggswell, it looks as if——”
"So they can’t find Jake, eh?" the boss interrupted, his ears wiggling a fast accompaniment to his words. "It is understood that he has run away? Well, if such is, indeed, the case, it looks as if the rascal really must be guilty. Flight can generally be regarded as a confession of guilt, can’t it, boys?"
"Well," said one of the newspaper men boldly, "if Hines is guilty, Mr. Coggswell, how about yourself? Everybody knows that he is your confidential man, and——”
"He was my confidential man, you mean, sir," corrected Coggswell, with dignity. "I’ll admit that Jake has been very close to me. I’ll admit that I thought the world of him. But, of course, if he was in any way connected with that dastardly plot to send an innocent man to prison—if it can be proved that he had anything to do with it, Jake Hines and I must part company forever. I wouldn’t have such a scoundrel around me. Even if he were my own brother, I would cast him out. It is really a sad case—a very sad case. It only goes to show, boys, to what depths an impetuous young man will sometimes descend when he is in love."
The newspaper men looked at him in amazement. "In love?" one repeated inquiringly.
"Yes. Let me give you fellows a little tip. There is a young lady—Miss Dallas Worthington—a very charming young lady, I have been told. She is employed as a typist in the office of a real-estate man named Walter K. Sammis. If you go and see her, she will probably tell you that Jake Hines has been making love to her. I understand, in fact, that he is madly infatuated with her. Now, Miss Worthington happens to be engaged to Carrier Sheridan. Perhaps you can see now the motive which inspired poor Jake to——”
The reporters waited to hear no more. They departed hurriedly for the real-estate office, eager to interview Dallas and get her to confirm this tip.
Thus it happened that the newspapers next morning, in their accounts of Owen Sheridan’s trial and its sensational developments, exonerated Boss Coggswell, and unanimously declared that while at first it had been assumed that the conspiracy to railroad the letter carrier to jail was of a political nature, it had been discovered that rivalry in love was at the bottom of it all—that Jake Hines had been inspired solely by personal motives, and had acted without the knowledge of his master.
"I feared as much," said Judge Lawrence to Owen, pointing with a wry smile to the pile of newspapers on his desk. "Coggswell has managed to get from under by making Jake Hines the goat. The grand jury will take the same view of the matter as the newspapers. We shan’t be able to convict that rascal this time."
"But we’ll get him on that other charge, anyway—the charge of tampering with your mail, judge," declared Owen confidently. "He can’t very well wriggle out of that."
The lawyer shook his head dubiously. "I’m not so sure. Carrier Greene and Tom Hovey have skipped their bail. Of course, Coggswell will keep them liberally supplied with funds, so there isn’t much chance of their being caught. And unless they can be brought back and forced to squeal, it will be impossible to implicate the boss."
"But how about my testimony?" protested Owen. "You[Pg 46]are forgetting that I am in a position to prove that Coggswell was behind that plot to tamper with your mail, judge."
Judge Lawrence laughed grimly. "No, I am not forgetting. Your testimony, by itself, wouldn’t be worth anything at all, Owen. Sam Coggswell evidently thought that it would. He must have been afraid of you, or he wouldn’t have gone to such trouble and risk to have you discredited, unless, of course, he did it merely out of revenge; but if he had consulted a lawyer he would have learned that we couldn’t implicate him on your testimony alone."
Seeing the look of disappointment of Sheridan’s face, the lawyer laid his hand upon the young man’s shoulder, and said:
"Never mind, my boy; we’ll get that rascal yet. You can depend upon it that he is mixed up in several corrupt post-office deals, any one of which, if exposed, will land him in jail. And when you’re a post-office inspector, Owen, you’ll have a chance to look thoroughly into some of those deals."
"When I’m a post-office inspector!" repeated Owen, with a laugh. "I’m afraid there won’t be any chance of that happening while Boss Coggswell remains in power. He’ll make it his business to see that I——”
"My friend," interrupted Judge Lawrence dryly, "Sam Coggswell isn’t the only one who has a pull with the post-office department. As it happens, I have a friend at Washington whose word carries quite some weight in postal affairs. Believing that a man of your cleverness would be a valuable acquisition to the secret-service branch of the department, and feeling absolutely confident that you would come out of your trouble all right, I wrote to this friend of mine the other day in your behalf. This morning I received his answer. When you have read it I think you will agree that in spite of Sam Coggswell’s opposition you are going to get the job you want."
He took a letter from his desk, and handed it to Owen. With great astonishment the young man read:
"My Dear Judge: I have your note. Come and take lunch with me next Thursday, and we will talk the matter over. If your young protégé is as bright and honest as you say, I should like to see him made a post-office inspector."
"My Dear Judge: I have your note. Come and take lunch with me next Thursday, and we will talk the matter over. If your young protégé is as bright and honest as you say, I should like to see him made a post-office inspector."
This letter was written on White House stationery, and bore the signature of the President of the United States.
Three months later Letter Carrier Sheridan became Post-office Inspector Sheridan.
Sheridan was assigned to the New York division of the postal secret service, and, oddly enough, the first case that he was sent to investigate was at the branch at which he had served as carrier.
"Sheridan," said the chief inspector, "run up to Station X Y right away. There’s some trouble up there. Go and straighten it out."
Wondering what his trouble could be, and which one of his former comrades was concerned in it, Owen jumped aboard a subway express, and half an hour later stepped into the private office of Superintendent Henderson, of Branch X Y.[Pg 47]
Henderson’s greeting was flatteringly deferential. No matter how honest a postmaster may be, he likes to have the good will of the special investigators. Owen in his new role was, therefore, considered a person of some importance by his former boss.
"How do you do, Mr. Sheridan?" said he. "May I offer you my heartiest congratulations upon your promotion?" He extended his hand somewhat hesitatingly, remembering the bad turn he had once done Owen by peremptorily transferring him from his route.
But Owen did not bear any grudge. Henderson, except for that one act of injustice, had always been fairly decent to him. And, besides, the inspector was too happy over the realization of his ambition to bear ill will toward anybody. He cordially grasped the hand which the superintendent held halfway toward him. "Thank you," he said, in acknowledgment of the congratulations. "I shall never forget the many little kindnesses you showed me when I was connected with this branch."
Henderson looked at him keenly, wondering whether there was anything ironical about this remark; he was relieved to see that there was nothing at all suspicious about the inspector’s frank smile.
"I understand that there’s some trouble up here," said Owen, getting down to business. "The chief sent me up here to investigate."
The superintendent nodded. "Yes, it’s a very mysterious case, Mr. Sheridan. I can give you the details in a few words. A man named Walter K. Sammis—— I beg your pardon?"
Owen had been unable to refrain from an ejaculation of astonishment at the mention of the name of Dallas Worthington’s employer. Could it be possible that he had anything to do with this case?
"I didn’t mean to interrupt you," he said. "Please go on. You mean Sammis, the real-estate man, I presume?"
"Yes. He came around to this office at five o’clock yesterday evening, accompanied by another man—the Reverend Atkinson Moore. They came to see me with reference to a letter which they had dropped in the street letter box outside Sammis’ office—a letter in a pink envelope. Mr. Sammis explained to me that the letter contained a hundred-dollar bill which the clergyman was sending to a poor family in Pennsylvania."
"He was sending a hundred dollars in currency in an unregistered letter?" exclaimed Owen, with some astonishment.
"Yes," answered the superintendent, with a smile; "the reverend gentleman has great faith evidently in the infallibility of Uncle Sam’s post office; but his friend, Mr. Sammis, is not so trustful. After dropping the letter in the box, Mr. Moore went into the real-estate office to visit Sammis, who is a member of his church, and happened to mention sending the money; whereupon the real-estate man told him what a rash thing he had done to send money in that unsafe manner, and insisted that he should try to get the letter back. They came around here to stop the letter and have it registered before it went out. Of course, I consented to this. I told them that the man who attended to that box had not come in with the last collection, and asked them to wait until he arrived."
The superintendent smiled grimly. "And now, here comes the mystery, Mr. Sheridan. When the carrier came[Pg 48]in and we went to look for that letter, it wasn’t to be found. There was no pink envelope in his bag."
"By Jove!" exclaimed Owen, who had not been in the secret service long enough to conceal his emotions.
"We searched through the contents of the bag four times," Henderson went on. "We examined the bottom of the bag carefully, thinking it might possibly have stuck there; we went to the street letter box to see whether the pink envelope might not have been left behind. Not a trace of it could we find anywhere."
"And Mr. Moore is quite certain that he dropped it in the box?" asked Owen.
"Absolutely positive."
"And quite sure that it was a pink envelope?"
"Yes, he is certain of that."
"Who’s the carrier who made the collections, Mr. Henderson?"
"James Andrews."
"‘Pop’ Andrews!" exclaimed Owen. "Then that disposes of the theory that the letter was stolen on the way from the street box to the post office. I’m sure that Pop is too honest to have stolen it himself, and too careful to let anybody else take it from his bag. What has Pop to say about the matter, Mr. Henderson?"
"He hasn’t given us any explanation. He’s all broken up about the matter. The poor fellow realizes that he’s placed in a nasty position. Nevertheless, it seems to me that he’s holding something back. I mean to say that there’s something about his manner that sort of gives me the idea that he knows a little more than he cares to tell about that letter."
"May I see him?" asked Inspector Sheridan.
"Yes; I’ll send for him."
Carrier Andrews entered the superintendent’s private office looking very worried and upset. He uttered an exclamation of astonishment when he discovered that Sheridan was the inspector assigned to the case.
"Now, Pop," said Owen gently to the veteran postman, "what can you tell me about this pink letter? Any help that you can give me I’ll greatly appreciate."
The old man looked at the young inspector pityingly. "Owen—er—I beg your pardon, I mean Mr. Sheridan—I’m mighty sorry that they sent you up to handle this case, because I’ve decided, after thinking it over, that I’d better tell the whole truth, and I’m afraid it’s going to hit you pretty hard."
"Hitmehard!" exclaimed Owen, in astonishment.
"Yes, sir. I’ve kept quiet until now—first, because in order to tell the truth I’ll have to confess to having violated the rules, which I hate to do, having been so long in the service; secondly, because I don’t like the idea of causing trouble to the young lady."
"The young lady!" Owen couldn’t help breaking in.
"Yes. As I say, I’ve decided that I’d better tell the truth," said Pop Andrews. "I do know something about that letter. There was a pink envelope in the box when I went to collect the mail. I gave it to the young lady who was standing at the box waiting for me. At first I didn’t want to give it to her, knowing it was against the rules, but she begged so hard, and finally, when she began to cry, telling me that it meant all the world to her to get that letter back, I decided that I’d take a chance, and I handed her the pink envelope."
"She told you that it was hers, of course, Pop?" said Owen.[Pg 49]
"Yes; she said that she’d dropped it in the box only five minutes before, and that it was a letter that would cause a lot of trouble if it was sent, so she wanted it back. I believed her, and I let her have it, not dreaming that it wasn’t hers—that she was working a game on me."
"And I suppose you have no idea who this young woman was, have you, Pop?"
Once more the gray-haired carrier looked pityingly at the young inspector. "Yes, Mr. Sheridan, I have. I hate to tell you, knowing what she is to you, but it was the young lady who works in Mr. Sammis’ office, Miss Dallas Worthington."
Walking so quickly that his pace was almost a run, Owen Sheridan hurried around to Walter K. Sammis’ real-estate office. It was past ten o’clock, and Dallas was usually at her typewriter by nine; but there was no sign of her now. Her employer stood in the outer office, and looked at Owen questioningly.
"Hasn’t Miss Worthington got down yet, Mr. Sammis?" the young man asked.
"No, she hasn’t, and I can’t understand what’s keeping her."
Without stopping to say another word, Owen hurried around to Dallas’ boarding house. It was ridiculous, of course, to suspect that she could have stolen that letter; but the mystery must be cleared up immediately.
"Where’s Miss Worthington?" he inquired of the landlady, who came to the door in response to his ring.
"I couldn’t tell you, Mr. Sheridan," the woman answered; "she left here last night."
"Left last night!" repeated Owen blankly.
"Yes; she came in here just before supper time, rushed up to her room, packed her suit case, and hurried out of the house as if a thousand demons were after her."
For a moment Post-office Inspector Owen Sheridan stood staring stupidly at Dallas Worthington’s landlady, appalled by the significance of what the woman had just told him.
"Gone!" he exclaimed dazedly, at last, "and with her suit case. But didn’t she say where she was going, Mrs. O’Brien? Didn’t she tell you when she’d be back?"
"No, sir; not a word. She rushed out of the house like a creature possessed. In all the while I’ve known her I’ve never seen her in such a state. She’s usually such a calm, dignified young woman, as well you know, Mr. Sheridan. If it wasn’t that she left her trunk behind her, and that she don’t impress me as bein’ at all that kind of person, I’d be inclined to think that she’d skipped to beat her board bill; she owes me three weeks’ board. I’ve been gettin’ nothing but excuses and promises from her lately."
This was another staggerer for Owen. Dallas in need of money! He knew that the girl’s position as stenographer in Mr. Sammis’ real-estate office did not command a very big salary; but she had never once hinted to Owen that she was not earning enough to pay her expenses.
"Poor little girl," he mused tenderly. "She’s evidently been having a hard struggle to get along, and I never guessed it. But, thank goodness, she won’t have to[Pg 50]struggle any longer. There’s nothing to prevent us from getting married now, and she can throw up that job as soon as she’s ready."
He was smiling to himself at the pleasant picture his mind drew of a cozy little flat, with Dallas, trim and dainty, pouring coffee at a breakfast table laid for two, when the strident voice of the boarding-house woman brought him sharply to his senses:
"Why a young woman that’s earning twelve dollars a week—which I understand is her salary, Mr. Sheridan—shouldn’t be able to keep out of debt when her board bill’s only eight, is something that I fail to understand. It isn’t as if she was a fancy dresser. She’s always neat, of course, but she never wears expensive clothes, and I can’t see why she should have to get three weeks behind in her board, when——”
Owen hastily took out his wallet, and withdrew twenty-four dollars.
"When Miss Worthington comes back, you can tell her that her board bill has been paid, without telling her who paid it, Mrs. O’Brien," he said, handing her the money. "And please don’t mention anything to anybody about her having been in arrears."
"I won’t, sir," the landlady assured him. "It ain’t no disgrace, of course, to be hard up; but, at the same time, I know it ain’t a subject that people like to have talked about. I’ll be very careful not to mention it, Mr. Sheridan."
"I sincerely hope that she’ll keep that promise," said Owen to himself, as he left the house. "Until this pink-envelope mystery is cleared up, it would be very awkward to have it become known that Dallas was so financially embarrassed that she couldn’t pay her board bill."
Then he smiled grimly, as it occurred to him that the only person from whom, in Dallas’ behalf, such knowledge should have been kept was himself. Of what use to request the landlady not to mention the matter to anybody, when he, the inspector in charge of the case, was already in possession of the incriminating information? He was the man who must find out what had become of the missing pink envelope. He was the man who must name the guilty person, and eventually make an arrest in the case. And, now that he knew that Dallas Worthington had suddenly vanished, a few minutes after she got possession of the only pink envelope which the letter box contained, what was he going to do about it?
He asked himself this question uneasily as he walked away from the boarding place. He told himself indignantly that it was preposterous to suppose for a minute that Dallas could be guilty of stealing the missing letter; that she could deliberately have deceived Carrier Andrews in order to get possession of the hundred-dollar bill which the pink envelope contained.
He was angry with himself for even considering the possibility of Dallas’ guilt. "A nice way to treat the girl I love—the girl I am going to make my wife!" he muttered. "It would serve me right if she threw me over entirely when she learns that I dared to doubt her. How foolish to suppose that her disappearance can have anything to do with the loss of that letter!"
Yet he knew very well that it was not foolish, from the standpoint of an impartial post-office inspector. He knew very well that, considering all the facts in the case, if it had been any other girl than Dallas Worthington, he would have decided with positiveness that the person[Pg 51]to be charged with the crime was the young woman who had accosted Pop Andrews at the street letter box, and pleaded with the old mail collector until he handed her the letter.
He realized that he must do one of two things: He must scoff at Pop Andrews’ story, accuse him of having invented that yarn about handing the pink envelope to Dallas, charge the veteran carrier with being the thief, and place him under arrest; or else, accepting the carrier’s story as the truth, he must report to his chief that the missing letter had been stolen by a young woman named Dallas Worthington, who had not yet been placed under arrest because she had fled to escape the consequences of her act.
"It’s a ticklish proposition," reflected Owen. "I can’t very well accuse Dallas, yet I know very well that Pop Andrews is honest, and it would break the old fellow’s heart to accuse him of being a thief."
As Sheridan entered the post office, and stepped moodily into the private rooms of the superintendent, Henderson looked at him with an expectant smile. "Well, Mr. Inspector, have you solved the mystery yet?"
"Not quite, Henderson. Is Pop Andrews in? I’d like to have another talk with him."
"Yes; he’s upstairs in the swing room, I believe. I’ll send for him."
"Now, Pop," said Owen, as the grizzled carrier came into the office, "are you absolutely sure that it was Miss Worthington to whom you handed that pink envelope last night?"
"Yes, sir; I am quite sure."
"You don’t think there’s any possibility that you could have been mistaken—that it might have been some other young woman who resembled Miss Worthington?" asked Owen.
"No; I’m positive, Mr. Sheridan. I know her well. You know I had that delivery route for six weeks last summer, while Smithers was sick, and I saw her, of course, every day when I called at the real-estate office with the mail, so I couldn’t be mistaken."
Owen nodded gloomily. "That’s right, Pop; I recall, now, that you had that route while Smithers was laid up. As you say, you ought to know her. Now, I want you to tell me, Pop, exactly what passed between you when she asked for that letter. Give me every word of the conversation as near as you can remember it."
"Very good, sir," said the old man. "Well, to begin at the very beginning, the young lady was pacing up and down in front of the letter box in a very nervous manner, as I came along. When I went to open the box, she touched my arm, and said: ‘I just dropped a letter in here, which I’d like to get back. I’ve changed my mind about sending it.’ ‘Excuse me, miss,’ I said, ‘but before you go any further let me tell you that us carriers are not allowed to hand back anything that has been mailed. Its strictly against the rules,’ I says. ‘The only way you can get your letter is by going around to the post office and seeing the superintendent. He can let you have it if he wants to; the rules give him that right; but I can’t.’"
"And what did she say to that?" inquired Owen eagerly.[Pg 52]
"She said that she didn’t care to go around to see the superintendent; that she didn’t think he’d do her the favor, and she began to plead and beg, saying that if I knew how very much it meant to her to get that letter back, she was sure that I wouldn’t refuse her."
"Didn’t she tell you what was in the letter?" asked Owen. "Surely she must have mentioned something as to the nature of its contents, Pop?"
"No, sir; she didn’t. She merely said it was a very important letter, and that it would do a terrible lot of harm if it went through the mail. And she said, also, that she could pick the letter out without giving me any trouble, because it was in a pink envelope, and square-shaped."
"Square-shaped!" repeated Owen, turning eagerly to Superintendent Henderson, who sat listening to this conversation. "Then that goes to prove that——”
"I believe I forgot to mention, Mr. Inspector, that according to Mr. Sammis and his clergyman friend, the letter which they dropped into the box, and which is now missing, was also in a square envelope," interrupted the superintendent.
The look of joyous relief which had come to Owen’s face immediately disappeared. "Well, go on, Pop," he said, in a discouraged tone.
"Well, sir, the young lady pleaded so hard that finally, like a weak old fool, I consented to do her the favor. It wasn’t until she began to cry that I gave in; I can’t bear to see a woman in tears, and I didn’t dream for a minute, of course, that there was goin’ to be all this trouble about that letter afterward; so I told her I’d take a chance and let her have it."
"And when you handed her the pink envelope, you noticed, of course, the address which was on it," said Owen, clutching at straws. "Are you quite sure, Pop, that it was addressed to a person in Pennsylvania—the same person to whom the clergyman’s missing letter was addressed?"
He asked the question fearfully, realizing that Dallas’ fate depended upon what answer the old carrier made. If Pop Andrews answered in the affirmative, then there could be no doubt, of course, that the letter which Dallas had asked for and received was the letter which contained the clergyman’s hundred-dollar bill.
But the veteran shook his head. "No, I couldn’t swear to that, Owen; I couldn’t tell you whether it was addressed to the same party or not, because I didn’t see the address side at all."
"You didn’t see it?" exclaimed Owen incredulously. "You mean to say that you handed her the letter without even looking at it, Pop?"
An exclamation of astonishment came from Superintendent Henderson. He, too, looked at the old man incredulously.
Pop Andrews’ air was sheepish. "I must admit that I’m all kinds of a careless fool," he said; "but, you see, didn’t give me a chance to look at the address. As soon as I opened the box and took out its contents she reached for the pink envelope, which was lying on top of the heap, and she said: ‘Here it is; thank you very much.’ And she grabbed it before I had a chance to object. I was about to tell her that she couldn’t have the letter until she had convinced me that it was the right one, but before I could say a word she was hurrying up the street with the pink envelope in her hand bag."[Pg 53]
"And you didn’t follow her and insist upon her giving it up or letting you examine it?" exclaimed Owen.
"No, sir; I didn’t bother. You see, I supposed everything was all right. I thought the young lady acted like that merely because she was excited and nervous. You know how jerky a woman’ll act when she’s got something on her mind. I put it down to that, and went ahead with my collections, not thinking any more about the matter until I got back here, and was asked to produce the pink envelope containing a hundred-dollar bill, which the parson had dropped into that same letter box."
As the old man finished, he turned anxiously to Owen. "I hope you believe what I’ve told you? You’re not going to place me under arrest, are you, Mr. Sheridan?"
Owen hesitated, but only for a moment. His glance traveled from the veteran’s grizzled hair to the gold stars on his coat sleeves—emblems of forty years’ faithful service in the department. Then a look of determination came to the young inspector’s face.
"No, Pop. I’m not going to arrest you," he said. "Hard as it is to believe, I feel that you’ve told me the truth, and I can’t be so unjust as to make you the scapegoat."
Superintendent Henderson looked at Owen in astonishment. "Excuse me for butting in, Mr. Sheridan," he said, "but being that you’re new at this work I take the liberty of reminding you that it’s usual in cases of this sort to arrest the carrier. I don’t want to make things unpleasant for Pop, of course, but, at the same time, it seems to me that you can’t very well let him go free. You see, Mr. Sheridan, he admits that he handed the missing letter to the young woman, and, therefore, innocent though his intentions may have been, in the eyes of the law he’s a party to the crime."
"I guess that’s right," assented Owen, his face flushing at thus having displayed his greenness. He turned apologetically to Carrier Andrews. "What the superintendent says is undoubtedly so, Pop. I’m sorry to say that I’ll have to place you under arrest, after all."
TO BE CONTINUED.
A few years ago, a British ship having on board a large consignment of Spanish specie for a house in Rio Janeiro, was wrecked on the Brazilian coast. The captain ordered some of the casks containing the gold to be brought on deck, but it was soon found necessary to take to the boats without any of the treasure.
As the last boat was about to leave, one of the officers went back to make a last tour of the ship. Sitting beside one of the casks with a hatchet in his hand, he found one of the sailors.
"Hurry up!" cried the officer. "We came within an ace of going off without you."
"I’m not going," replied the sailor, giving the cask a hearty whack with the hatchet, bursting it open, and laughing with delight as the coin poured out around him; "I’ve always wanted to die rich. I’ve been poor all my life, and this is my first and last chance. Go ahead! I’ll stay here with my fortune."
Argue as he might, the officer could not persuade the fellow to leave the gold, with which he played as a child with marbles, and he finally had to leave him to his fate.[Pg 54]
[Pg 55]
THE NEWS OF ALL NATIONS.
Isaac Pressman, tailor at 5505 Woodland Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio, was awakened at four a. m. by the gleam of a flash light on his face.
When he sat up in bed he found the flash light had been switched so as to shine on his trousers hung over the back of a chair. In the shaft of light he saw a hand searching the pockets.
Pressman leaped from bed and grappled with the burglar. In the struggle the burglar seized Pressman’s revolver from the bureau and ordered hands up.
"You’ve got nerve," the intruder said, "so I won’t shoot you. But you should have got the gun before you jumped me."
Then he disappeared with the gun and a pocketbook containing fourteen dollars.
Because a hen, the property of Earl Peck, of Sandersbury, Pa., is not allowed to set on eggs, she has undertaken to mother two little pigs the farmer brought home a few days ago. It’s a cute sight to see the hen strutting around with her adopted ones.
In South Africa there is the "sneeze-wood" tree, which is so called because one cannot cut it with a saw without sneezing, as the fine dust has exactly the effect of snuff. No insect or worm will touch it; it is very bitter to the taste, and, when placed in water, it sinks.
A typewriter that can be operated by the feet has been invented by a German. It is for the benefit of those who have lost one or both arms in the war.
For testing X-ray apparatus, skeleton hands, made of paper and being about as opaque as real hands, have been invented.
Because some London streets are too narrow for motor omnibuses to be turned around, vehicles are being tried with controlling apparatus at each end.
A recently invented pneumatic boxing glove is intended to protect both user and opponent from harm.
W. H. Hilton, living near Crane, Mo., lost his voice two years ago from the effects of a severe case of whooping cough. The singular feature of Mr. Hilton’s affliction is that he can speak audibly to dumb animals on his farm in as clear a voice as he ever could, but can only whisper when he attempts to speak to persons. Mr. Hilton’s health is excellent, and his strange affliction has puzzled physicians from many parts of the State. He is sixty-five years old.
Vacuum cleaners, which have the usefulness of curry-combs, with the additional advantage of suction to draw into a receptacle the dust, scale, and dandruff removed[Pg 56]from the animal’s coat, have been adopted for grooming the horses of New York City’s park department. The cleaner is driven by an electric motor, and is so light as to be easily carried from place to place. For greater convenience, however, they are mounted on hand trucks.
It has been found that besides doing the work in a much more thorough and sanitary manner than is possible with the ordinary currycomb, the cleaners are far more rapid. The men, using the vacuum cleaner, can care for several times the number of horses they formerly could curry in the old way.