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

"Then come around the corner. There's a cop that'll keep an eye on the place till we get back."

"Beckon to him."

Rouse did so, and the policeman crossed the street to them.

An arrangement was soon made with him, and the two detectives hurried away.

In less than ten minutes they were back, thoroughly disguised as sailors, and accompanied by two friends – shipmates.

They now entered the saloon, and looked about them.

Not a soul did they see but a sleepy-looking boy sitting on a box behind the bar.

"Got a place where we can sit down, and have a social glass?" asked Old Spicer.

The boy looked up, considered for a moment, and then, pointing to a door, nodded.

Old Spicer at once opened the door, and, followed by his party, entered the inner room.

Here were about a dozen tables, each with four chairs about it.

Three of the tables were occupied; two of them with the full complement of four, the other with but three men.

Two of these three men at the third table were Barney and Jake; their companion was clearly the proprietor of the place.

Old Spicer selected the next table to that occupied by the trio, and placed himself where he could both see and hear what was going on among his nearest neighbors. His comrades quickly took the other seats.

The proprietor and his two friends at once ceased speaking, and regarded the quartet of sailors with looks of suspicion and surprise.

"Where's that sleepy boy we saw in the cabin, and who ordered us into this devil's hold?" demanded Old Spicer. "Is he going to keep us waiting all night for our grog?"

The proprietor slowly arose to his feet.

"You want grog, do you?" he asked, drawing near their table.

"That's just what we want," answered Old Spicer, emphatically – "rum, mind ye, cap'n, genuine St. Croix rum."

"That's it, shipmate," exclaimed Rouse; "no belly-wash for us."

"It's rum all around, is it?" asked the proprietor, eying each one of the party in turn.

"It is that," answered Rouse. "And say, skipper, you may as well bring a bottle."

"A bottle from which the cork has never been removed," added Old Spicer.

"All right, I have just what you want;" and the proprietor quietly left the room.

Barney and Jake watched the quartet narrowly, but hardly spoke while their friend was away.

Presently he returned with a bottle and four glasses on a good-sized waiter.

"What!" exclaimed Old Spicer, as he set down the waiter, "ain't you going to take a toothful with us for sociability's sake?"

"Why, of course, if you wish it," was the reply, and slipping over to the other table, he took up his own glass, which was still partially filled, and raised it to his lips.

"None of that!" cried Rouse, sharply. "Throw that stuff away and fill fair of this bottle."

"Stuff?" retorted the proprietor, "Why, this is good French brandy, man."

"The deuce it is! How cursed lonesome it must be!"

"Lonesome? Why?"

"Because it ain't likely there's another thimbleful in all America."

"What're givin' us? Do you mean to say that I haven't got plenty of French brandy in my establishment?"

"I mean to say just this: There is more brandy used in the one city of Paris alone than is manufactured in all France. How, then, is it likely that much of the pure stuff can pass our custom-houses."

"Ha! ha!" laughed Barney, "if any of the Simon Pure could get as far as the custom-houses, I'll warrant it wouldn't get any further. Our government officials know too well what's expected of them to let it slip through their fingers."

"Right, shipmate!" exclaimed Rouse, "they'd prefer to let it slip down their insatiable throats."

"Well," exclaimed Old Spicer, suddenly, "pure or impure, I see you've disposed of your brandy at last, landlord, and so now come over and help us out with our rum."

The landlord, drawing his chair after him, joined them at their table. Rouse filled his glass, gave a toast, and was careful to see that the old man drank it off. Then a suspicion that the liquor might have been tampered with was removed.

"What ship do you fellows belong to?" asked the proprietor, while Rouse was refilling his glass.

"No ship at all," was the answer.

"What craft, then?"

"The three-masted schooner Miranda, in the West Indian trade."

"Oh! ah! that's why you think so much of St. Croix rum, eh?"

"Exactly. We know the taste, and we know how much of the stuff we can stand, don't you see?"

"I see; but it seems to me you are confoundedly cautious for sailors."

"May be so; but they say a burnt child dreads the fire, and we've been caught a time or two."

"Been taken in and done for, eh?"

"Yes, but no matter, you're an honest-looking set here, and seeing that the grog's good, we'll throw caution to the wind and enjoy ourselves," and the bottle circulated freely, indeed, so freely that it was soon empty and another ordered.

The landlord being now convinced that the sailors were all right, and better, that they were getting very drunk, returned to Barney and Jake, who had remained all this time quietly at the other table.