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

At first they conversed in low tones, but soon almost all they said reached the ears of the detectives.

"Yes, old pal," were the first words Old Spicer distinctly heard, "I think I can manage the matter for you. I don't know the chap, but from the description you've given of him, and the directions as to where he may be found, I think I can get at him, and produce him in the place you name."

"And you will do it?"

"If you think it worth the sum I want."

"It's a tamned pig brice, Pill Punce," exclaimed Jake.

"Ay," was the reply: "but if we can manage to give the detective the slip, I'll warrant he'll be willing enough to pay it."

"Of course, of course," assented Barney; "we won't dispute your price, Bill."

"Then we understand each other, do we?"

"I suppose so; but to make certain just go over the programme, will you?"

"Well, after I've found this fellow, Chamberlain, I'm to get him over to the bay, where the Bouncing Betsy lies, and where you will meet us. In case we don't find you at old Flipper's, I am to take the lad on board the schooner at once, which, when you're all aboard, will sail for the quarries, eh?"

"Yes, for the island, so-called."

"Correct. And there, in Canter's Hole, all will be safe till the schooner sails for the Gulf, when you can all get out of the country without any one's dreaming how it was managed."

"Right, by Jove! that is – " And here Barney came to an abrupt pause.

At this time there were not less than a dozen men in the place, besides the four detectives, every one of them desperate characters, and warm friends of Bill Bunce, the proprietor.

At the moment Barney paused his eye happened to rest on the quartet at the next table, and he was struck by the eager interest depicted on one or two of the faces.

"What's the matter?" demanded Bunce, turning sharply round.

"The matter is," cried Barney, starting to his feet and drawing a couple of revolvers, "that these fellows are a pack of cursed spies, and I know it!"

"Spies!" echoed every man in the room. "Spies! Kill the bloody wretches! don't let one of 'em escape!"

"We're in for it, by Jove!" exclaimed Rouse. "Let us keep well together, and shoot to kill."

"Ay!" said Old Spicer, "but I should awfully hate to have the gallows cheated of its lawful prey. I wish I could take those two villains back with me unharmed."

By this time Bill Bunce and his friends had got between the detectives and the outlets, and were preparing for a deadly fight.

"Do you really mean to say that you will be so rash as to fire upon us?" asked Old Spicer. "You must know that sooner or later you will have to pay dearly for it if you do."

"We know mighty well that we shall have to pay for it devilish soon if we don't," retorted Bunce; "and that's enough for us to know. Let 'em have it, boys!" and at least half a dozen shots were fired, and one of the detectives was slightly wounded.

"Fire!" exclaimed Old Spicer, in a determined voice, and as each detective had two revolvers, eight shots rang out, and two of the enemy fell dead, while four more were wounded, Jake Klinkhammer being among the latter.

The firing now became general, and it was difficult to say who was getting the best of it, when the door from the saloon was suddenly thrown open and the boy's voice was heard to exclaim:

"Scatter! the cops are coming!"

Almost in an instant the place was cleared of Bunce's men, and a moment later a sergeant of police, followed by six men, entered.

CHAPTER XX.

JAKE KLINKHAMMER'S POCKETBOOK – OLD SPICER SURPRISED

"Ah! sergeant, you never were more welcome," cried Rouse. "Grab that young whelp in the saloon, and then let's see who's hurt here."

"The boy's all right," returned the sergeant. "One of my men has him fast; but who the deuce are you?"

Rouse explained.

"Ah! And this gentleman?"

"Is Old Spicer. You've heard of him?"

"Heard of him? I should say so! Are you hurt, sir?"

"Slightly; nothing to speak of, though. But our comrades, I fear, have suffered."

"What! these two? Are these our men?"

"Yes."

"Who's this one?"

"Matt Quinn," answered Rouse.

"Well, poor fellow, he's as dead as a door-nail. And this?"

"Nat Skinner."

"He's badly hurt, but I reckon he'll come out all right in the end. Now let's look at this pile of carrion," and he turned to where the dead and wounded of the enemy were lying.

"Lord! gentlemen," he exclaimed, "you did mighty well for the time you were at it. How many were there against you?"

"Twelve."

"Twelve? And seven of them are here – four dead, and the rest badly wounded. Who's this one?"

"A Jew," said Rouse.

"A Jew, eh?"

"Yes," explained Old Spicer, "a noted rascal, Jake Klinkhammer by name."

"Oho! he's saved your state a trial. Do you know any of the rest?"