The Spruce Street Tragedy; or, Old Spicer Handles a Double Mystery

"Bell what?"

"No! no! Bell is her last name."

"Oh! is it Cora Bell?"

"Yes, that's it."

"Does she live on Sixth Avenue?"

"I believe so."

"Know the number?"

"I – I – there! I mustn't tell you any more."

"No matter, I can find her if I should happen to want to see her. But one question more: Hen isn't Hen when he travels in New York, I'm told?"

"No, not always, I believe."

"How do you address your letters when you write to him?"

She considered for a moment.

"Of course you are really his friends," she said at last, "and I will tell you."

"Well, we are somewhat anxious to know."

"In New York he goes by the name of Frank Clark."

"Frank Clark! Ah! of course. I ought to have remembered that. Come, Jake, one more drink, and then we must really tear ourselves away from this lovely young lady."

They filled their glasses, drained them, and prepared to go.

"What! are you both going?" asked Sadie, regarding them with a look of disappointment.

"We must go," said Barney. But understanding her look, he quickly turned to his companion and added:

"Come, Jake, you wouldn't drink the lady's liquor and leave nothing in its place, I hope. Come! come! old fellow, be generous for once in your life, and give her a yellow boy."

Jake looked annoyed; but with the best grace possible, pulled out one of the Eagle Gold Mining Company's ten-dollar gold pieces, and throwing it into Sadie's lap, said:

"There, my tear, don't never say I vos gif you noddings."

"And there, my beauty," added Barney, tossing another gold piece to her. "Please, hereafter set me down among your friends."

"Oh! thank you – thank you both," she exclaimed, fervently. "God knows I needed this," and bursting into tears, the poor girl fled from the room.

"Come," said Barney, hurriedly, "we'd better get away while we can," and slipping down-stairs, they went out at the side door.

"Vell, vhich vay now?" asked Jake, as they hurried down the street.

"I've been thinking," responded Barney, "and if the thing can be managed, we ought not to take the train anywhere this side of Milford."

"I can manage it," said Jake, quietly.

"How?"

"I know a livery-stable keeper vot vos all right."

"Who is he?"

"Isaac Rosenwasser."

"Where's his place?"

"On George Street; und, so 'elp me gracious, dere vos vun uv his carriages now, on dot corner."

"Do you know the driver?"

"I vill run und see. He vos in dot saloon, I guess."

Jake hurried across the street and peered into the saloon.

The driver was there, and he knew him.

He called him out, beckoned to Barney, and sprung into the carriage.

"Where to, Jake?" asked the driver.

"Go out Congress Avenue, und then I vill told you."

The driver took the direction named, and in due time had crossed West Bridge and entered the town of Orange.

"Where now?" he asked.

"Old Milford," was the brief reply.

"The devil!" exclaimed the driver, "you're giving me a pretty job at this hour in the morning."

"Never mind, my tear fellow," said Jake, encouragingly, "ve vill make it all right vid you."

"All right it is, then," cried the driver, cheerfully, and he started his horses toward the Milford turnpike.

Slowly they ascended the long hill, passed the old toll-gate, and then were fairly on the way to the station from whence they hoped to start for New York.

In due time they reached the place, dismissed the driver with a liberal fee, and when the local express came along sprung aboard.

Two hours later they landed in the Grand Central Depot, and without loss of time started for Hudson Street.