The Face and the Mask, Robert Barr [best color ereader TXT] 📗

“We haven’t all had the advantage of metropolitan training,” said Thompson humbly.

“I will go there with the police. You and Murren had better be on the ground, but don’t go too soon, and don’t make yourselves conspicuous or they might take alarm. Here is the address. You had better take it down.”

“Oh, I’ll find the place all——” Then Thompson thought a moment and pulled himself together. “Thanks,” he said, carefully noting down the street and number.

The detachment of police drew up in front of the place a few minutes before 2 o’clock. The streets were deserted, and so silent were the blue coats that the footsteps of a belated wayfarer sounded sharply in the night air from the stone pavement of a distant avenue.

“Are you sure,” said McCrasky to the man in charge of the police, “that there is not a private entrance somewhere?”

“Certainly there is,” was the impatient reply: “Sergeant McCollum and four men are stationed in the alley behind. We know our business, sir.”

McCrasky thought this was a snub, and he was right. He looked around in the darkness for his reporters. He found them standing together in a doorway on the opposite side of the street.

“Been here long?” he whispered.

Murren was gloomy and did not answer. The religious editor removed his corn-cob and said briefly; “About ten minutes, sir.” Thompson was gazing with interest at the dark building across the way.

“You’ve seen nobody come out?”

“Nobody. On the contrary, about half a dozen have gone up that stairway.”

“Is that the place, sir?” asked Thompson with the lamb-like innocence of the criminal reporter.

“Yes, upstairs there.”

“What did I tell you?” said the religious editor. “Thompson insisted it was next door.”

“Come along,” said McCrasky, “the police are moving at last.”

A big bell in the neighborhood solemnly struck two slow strokes, and all over the city the hour sounded in various degrees of tone and speed. A whistle rang out and was distantly answered. The police moved quickly and quietly up the stairway.

“Have you tickets, gentlemen,” asked the man at the door politely; “this is a private assembly.”

“The police,” said the sergeant shortly, “stand aside.”

If the police were astonished at the sight which met their gaze, their faces did not show it. But McCrasky had not such control over his features and he looked dumbfounded. The room was the same, undoubtedly, but there was not the vestige of a card to be seen. There were no tables, and even the bar had disappeared. The chairs were nicely arranged and most of them were occupied. At the further end of the room Pony Rowell stood on a platform or on a box or some elevation, and his pale, earnest face was lighted up with the enthusiasm of the public speaker. He was saying: “On the purity of the ballot, gentlemen, depends the very life of the republic. That every man should be permitted, without interference or intimidation, to cast his vote, and that every vote so cast should be honestly counted is, I take it, the desire of all who now listen to my words.” (Great applause, during which Pony took a sip from a glass that may have contained water.)

The police had come in so quietly that no one, apparently, had noticed their entrance, except that good man Mellish, who hurried forward to welcome the intruders.

“Will you take a seat?” he asked. “We are having a little political talk from Mr. Rowell, sergeant.”

“Rather an unusual hour, Mr. Mellish,” said the sergeant grimly.

“It is a little late,” admitted Mellish, as if the idea had not occurred to him before.

The police who had come in by the back entrance appeared at the other end of the room and it was evident that Rowell’s oration had come to an untimely end. Pony looked grieved and hurt, but said nothing.

“We will have to search the premises, Mr. Mellish,” said the sergeant.

Mellish gave them every assistance, but nothing was found.

As the four men walked back together to the Argus office, McCrasky was very indignant.

“We will expose the police to-morrow,” he said. “They evidently gave Mellish the tip.”

“I don’t think so,” said Thompson. “We will say nothing about it.”

“You forget yourself, Mr. Thompson. It rests with me to say what shall go on the local page. Not with you.”

“I don’t forget myself,” answered Thompson sadly; “I’ve just remembered myself. The Directors of the Argus appointed me local editor yesterday. Didn’t they tell you about it? That’s just like them. They forgot to mention the fact to Corbin that he had been superseded and the manager went off fishing after appointing Jonsey local editor, so that for a week we had two local editors, each one countermanding the orders of the other. It was an awful week. You remember it, Murren?” Murren’s groan seemed to indicate that his recollection of the exciting time was not a pleasant memory.

“In case of doubt,” murmured the religious editor, this time without removing his corn-cob, “obey the orders of the new man where the Argus is concerned. Thompson, old man, I’m wid you. When did the blow fall?”

“Yesterday afternoon,” said Thompson, almost with a sob; “I’ll be dismissed within a month, so I am rather sorry. I liked working on the Argus—as a reporter. I never looked for such ill luck as promotion. But we all have our troubles, haven’t we, Mac?”

McCrasky did not answer. He is now connected with some paper in Texas.