Back Aa

Fame and Fortune

Close

<h2>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> <h3>ANOTHER ARREST.</h3> Micky Maguire, as the reader will remember, was by no means satisfied with the compensation he received from Gilbert for his share in the plot which came so near proving disastrous to our friend Dick. He felt that the book-keeper had acted meanly to him, and he meant to have his revenge if a good opportunity should ever offer. He was very much disappointed to think he must do without the watch which he had set his heart upon. He would have felt no particular scruples against stealing it, but that would be rather dangerous. He began to wish he had kept the pocket-book. Very probably it contained more than enough to buy the watch. But, in spite of his disappointment, he had one satisfaction. He had avenged himself upon Dick, whom he had long disliked. He knew nothing of Tim Ryan's testimony, and supposed there was no doubt of Dick's conviction. He would like very well to have been present at the trial; but he had unpleasant associations connected with the court-room at the Tombs, having figured there on several occasions in an important but not very enviable capacity. As he was standing by the park railings, his particular friend and admirer, Limpy Jim, came up. "Mornin', Jim," said Micky. "What luck?" "None at all," said Jim. "I haven't had a shine yet, and I'm precious hungry." "Come and take breakfast with me," said Micky, in an unusual fit of generosity; for he was generally more willing to be treated than to treat. "Have you got stamps enough?" "Look at this," and Micky displayed the bill which he had received from Gilbert. "You're in luck, Micky. Did you make all that by shines?" "Never mind how I made it. I guess it's good. Come along if you're hungry." Limpy Jim followed Micky across Printing-House Square to a cheap restaurant on Nassau Street, between Ann and Beekman Streets, and they were soon partaking with relish of a breakfast which, as they were not very fastidious, proved abundantly satisfactory. "I've got some news," said Micky, after he had drained his cup of coffee. "You haven't forgot Ragged Dick, have ye?" "He's set up for a gentleman. I saw him a week ago strutting round as if he lived on Fifth Avenue." "Well, he's set up for something else now." "What's that?" "A pick-pocket." "What?" asked Jim, amazed. "He stole an old chap's pocket-book yesterday afternoon, and I seed a policeman haulin' him off to the p'lice station." "That's where he gets his good clo'es from?" suggested Jim. "Most likely. I expect he's on his way to the Island by this time." "Serve him right for puttin' on airs. He won't pretend to be so much better than the rest of us now." "Wonder what Tom Wilkins'll say? He's a great friend of Dick's." "He's a sneak," said Micky. "That's so. I wanted to borrer a shillin' of him last week, and he wouldn't lend it to me." This Tom Wilkins was a boot-black like the two who were expressing so unfavorable an opinion of his character. He had a mother and two sisters partially dependent upon him for support, and faithfully carried home all his earnings. This accounts for his being unwilling to lend Limpy Jim, who had no one to look out for but himself, and never considered it necessary to repay borrowed money. Tom had reason to feel friendly to Dick, for on several occasions, one of which is mentioned in the first volume of this series, Dick had given him help in time of need. He was always ready to defend Dick, when reviled by Micky and his followers, and had once or twice been attacked in consequence. Limpy Jim was right in supposing that nothing would disturb Tom more than to hear that his friend had got into trouble. Micky, who was in a generous mood, bought a couple of cheap cigars, of which he presented one to his satellite. These were lighted, and both boys, feeling more comfortable for the hearty meal of which they had partaken, swaggered out into the street. They re-entered the park, and began to look out for patrons. "There's Tom Wilkins now," said Limpy Jim. Tom was busily engaged in imparting a scientific shine to the boots of an old gentleman who was sitting on one of the wooden seats to be found in the neighborhood of the City Hall. When he had completed his task, and risen from his knees, Limpy Jim advanced towards him, and said, with a sneer, "I've heard fine news about your friend Dick." "What's that?" asked Tom. "He's got nabbed by a 'copp.'" "I don't believe it," said Tom, incredulously. "Isn't it so, Micky?" said Jim, appealing to his friend. "Yes, it's true. I seed him hauled off for pickin' an old fellow's pocket in Chatham Street." "I don't believe it," repeated Tom; but he began to feel a little uneasy. "I saw him and spoke to him yesterday mornin'." "What if you did? It didn't happen till afternoon." "Dick wouldn't steal," said Tom, stoutly. "He'll find it mighty hard work provin' that he didn't," said Micky. "You won't see him for the next three months." "Why won't I?" "Because he'll be at the Island. Maybe you'll go there yourself." "If I do, it'll be for the first time," retorted Tom; "and that's more than either of you can say." As this happened to be true, it was of course regarded as offensive. "Shut up, Tom Wilkins!" said Micky, "if you don't want a lickin'." "None of your impudence!" said Limpy Jim, emboldened by the presence and support of Micky, who was taller and stronger than Tom. "I've only told the truth," said Tom, "and you can't deny it." "Take that for your impudence!" said Micky, drawing off, and hitting Tom a staggering blow on the side of the head. Limpy Jim was about to assist Micky, when there was a very unlooked-for interruption. Micky Maguire was seized by the collar, and, turning indignantly, found himself in the grip of a policeman. "So you are fighting, are you, my fine fellow?" demanded the guardian of the public peace. "He insulted me," said Micky, doggedly, not attempting resistance, which he knew would be ineffectual. "Didn't he, Jim?" But Jim had already disappeared. He had a prejudice, easily accounted for, against the metropolitan police, and had as little communication with them as possible. "I don't know anything about that," said the policeman. "All I know is that you're wanted." "Just for hittin' him? I didn't hurt him any." "He didn't hurt me much," said Tom, generously, not desiring to see Micky get into trouble on his account. "He says I didn't hurt him," urged Micky. "Can't you let me go?" "That isn't what I want you for," said the policeman. Micky was astonished. The real cause of his arrest never once occurred to him, and he could not understand why he was "wanted." "What is it, then?" he asked in some surprise. "What 'ave I been doin'?" "Perhaps you don't remember relieving an old gentleman of his pocket-book yesterday in Chatham Street." "'Twasn't me." "Who was it then?" "Ragged Dick,—the feller that was took at the time. I seed him pick the man's pocket." "It seems that you remember something about it." "But it was Dick that did it. If he says I did it, he lies." "I've nothing to do with that. You must tell your story to the judge." "Has he let Dick go?" "Yes." Micky received this intelligence with dismay. Somehow it had got out that he was the real thief, and he began to think that his chance of getting off was small. Just then, while in custody of the policeman, he saw advancing towards him the man who had inveigled him into the plot,—Gilbert, the book-keeper. His anger against Gilbert overcame his prudence, and he said, "Well, if I did take the pocket-book, I was paid for doin' it, and that was the man that hired me." With some surprise, the policeman listened to this story. "If you don't believe me, just wait till I speak to him." "Mr. Gilbert!" called Micky. Gilbert, who had not till now noticed his confederate, looked up, and, rapidly understanding what had happened, determined upon his course. "Who speaks to me?" he said, quietly. "You've got me into trouble, Mr. Gilbert," said Micky, "and I want you to get me out of it." "What does he mean?" asked Gilbert, coolly, addressing the policeman. "You hired me to steal a man's pocket-book, and I'm took up for it," said Micky. "I want you to help me, or I'll be sent to the Island." "The boy must be crazy," said Gilbert, shrugging his shoulders. "You give me a dollar to do it," said Micky, very much incensed at the desertion of his confederate. "Do you know the boy?" asked the policeman respectfully, for he put no faith in Micky's statement. "He blacked my boots once," said Gilbert. "That's all I know about him. What is he arrested for?" "For picking pockets. There was another boy arrested on suspicion, but it appeared on trial that he was innocent, and that this boy really took the wallet." "He looks like a young scamp," said Gilbert, coolly. "I'm much obliged to him for introducing my name into the matter. I hope he'll get his desserts." This was too much for Micky's patience. He assailed Gilbert with such a shower of oaths that the policeman tightened his grip, and shook him vigorously. Gilbert shrugged his shoulders, and walked off with apparent unconcern. "Wait till I get free," said Micky, furiously. "I'll fix him." In regard to Micky, I have only to say further at this time, that he was at once conveyed to the Tombs, summarily tried and convicted, and spent the same night on Blackwell's Island, where we leave him for three months. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2