Another very important duty that a detective often has to perform is to “ring in with the gang.”

To arrest a criminal without having first obtained sufficient evidence to convict him of his crimes, seldom leads to any good result.

Often gangs of thieves organize for business, and if you get one you get all of them, as a rule, for thieves seldom have any honor among themselves, the old saying to the contrary, nevertheless.

Now to catch a gang like this it is often necessary to select a man to join them, a very ticklish business, by the way.

If the thieves are young men, you’ve got to get a young man to do the job. I’d be no use at all in such a case.

I remember shortly after the green goods case that an order came to me from the inspector to look into the matter of a gang of young toughs who were believed to make their headquarters in an unused sewer away up on First avenue.

For a long time these scoundrels had maintained a perfect reign of terror in the neighborhood of East 66th street, knocking men down and robbing them in broad daylight, breaking into stores, coming the flim-flam game on women, and all that sort of business.

There’s just such a gang operating on the West side of New York now, and the police seem quite powerless to do anything to put them down.

When the matter was placed in my hands I sent for Dave and told him that he must join that gang, find out their secret hiding-place and then betray them into my hands.

Dave heaved a sigh.

“Couldn’t you get somebody else to do that beside me, Mr. Brady?” he asked.

“Why, Dave,” said I, “you have been selected because I think you just the man for the job. What’s the matter with you going? Why do you object?”

“Well, to tell the trute, Mr. Brady (Dave always dropped into his old New York accent the moment he was the least excited), that gang is a tough one.”

“You are afraid?”

“Oh, no!”

“I could hardly believe it after all the evidence I have had of your courage. What, then?”

“Bad luck to it all, me first cousin, Patsey Malloy, is running that gang,” he blurted out. “You wouldn’t have me go against my own flesh and blood!”

“Now you look here, young man,” said I, going up to him and shaking my finger in his face. “You just want to understand one thing, and that is, if you are ever going to make a successful detective, you’ve got to lay all personal considerations aside. This Patsey Malloy—is he a bad one?”

“You’re right, he is!” replied Dave gloomily.

“Has he broken the law?”

“A t’ousand times!”

“And you are under your solemn oath to arrest all lawbreakers?”

Dave looked confused.

“Can’t we fix it no way so’s to save Patsy?” he asked.

“If that could be done I suppose you would just as soon see the rest bagged as not?” said I.

“Why, of course!” he answered, hastily. “And I think it can be fixed. I’ll see Patsy and let him know it’s either a question of his turning State’s evidence and giving me the gang or having some one else put on what’ll scoop ’em all in.”

“Would he do that?” I asked.

“Why, of course, rather than be took himself,” replied Dave, looking surprised that I should ask such a question.

That settled it so far as Dave was concerned. I told him that I’d think about it and let him know. I saw at once that he was not the man for the work. Then I sent for Sam Kean.

As soon as he came I told him the whole story.

“Do you think you could ring in with that gang?” I asked.

“I’d like to try ever so much,” he said. “I’ve wanted this long time to see what I could do with the roughest classes.”

“Ain’t you afraid?”

“Not a bit of it.”

“If they get an idea of the truth they’ll certainly kill you. Your life wouldn’t be worth two cents.”

“I’ll take the risk, Mr. Brady,” he said, boldly.

“All right,” said I; “you shall do it; but you must work quick. I want you to begin to-night.”

“I’ll do it, sir,” he said, and he did do it most effectually. Let him tell the rest of the story himself.

Joining the Gang.

It was a cold night when I joined the sewer gang.

Old King Brady says I must make a short story of it, so I’ll just begin in the middle and not tell how I located the gang—how I found that one of their hanging out places was a certain gin mill on the corner of First avenue and Seventy-third street; how I learned that they numbered more than seventy, ranging in age from twelve years to thirty. Briefly I found out all that and more.

It was a howling wilderness up in that neigborhood in those days, though it’s all altered now; literally howling that night, for the wind blew a perfect gale, as it is very apt to do in the month of March.

I knew all about the neighborhood, for during the week I had been scouring it in every direction collecting evidence.

I heard of men being waylaid and knocked down in broad daylight, or unwary drunkards being lured into those solitudes, robbed and thrown over the rocks into the East River; of burglaries and all sorts of outrages being committed. Yes, I want you to understand that gang was tough.

So was I—in appearance.

I wore a pair of ragged trousers, old shoes with my frozen toes almost on the ground. Overcoat I had none, and the coat I did have was thin, dirty and ragged, buttoned up to the throat to conceal a fearful-looking shirt, under which were three others, or I should certainly have frozen to death. As for my hat, I need only say that I picked it out of the ash scow at the Seventeenth street dump.

When I reached the lumber shed on the corner of Sixty-ninth street I stopped and whistled, leaning up against the fence.

Presently I heard a voice speak through a knot-hole in the fence and say:

“Is it you?”

“Yes,” said I.

“All O.K.?”

“Yes,” said I. “I’m to meet him in ten minutes. I had a long talk with him last night and all is fixed.”

“Where is it?” asked the voice.

“Couldn’t find out,” I replied. “You’ll have to follow me and see.”

“All right. Be very careful,” said the voice—then all was quiet.

I had worked hard to get as far as I had got in the business. How I managed to get acquainted with one of the leading spirits of the gang I ain’t going to tell.

It is enough to say that I had got acquainted with him and that he had promised to initiate me that night.

“Red McCann”—that was his name. I met him in the gin-mill ten minutes later.

He and two other toughs were waiting for me by appointment. They greeted me in the most friendly manner and we had several beers at my expense.

It was a great night for me, and I was expected to treat. I was going to “join the gang.”

Soon we started across lots working down toward the river. Just what street we were near at last I can’t say, for but few were opened then, and these being cut through the solid rock all looked alike. It was terrible cold, and I want you to understand that I was glad to get to the end of the journey at last.

“Ain’t we most there?” I asked of Red McCann. “I’m just about perished.”

“Oh, you’ll be there soon enough, cully,” he answered, winking at his companion, a fellow called “Schnitz.” Whether it was really his name or not, I’m sure I don’t know.

I saw the wink, and for the first time I began to wonder whether, after all, I had not deceived myself in thinking that I had deceived these fellows as to my true character.

But, no; I couldn’t believe it—I wouldn’t believe it.

I had worked so hard to accomplish my purpose. I had gone to lengths that made me shudder to think of.

Beside, I knew if they even suspected me my life was scarce worth a rush. I forced myself—absolutely forced myself—not to be afraid.

“Is it much further, Red?” I asked in my best “tough” dialect.

“Only a little way,” he answered. “Do you see that house right by the river bank?”

“Yes.”

“Do you see de woods on de left?”

“The woods,” was a little clump of locust trees, once a shady grove in some gentleman’s grounds in the days when the house would have been called a mansion.

“I see,” I said.

“Well, we get into the sewer through that house by way of de cellar,” answered Red. “We’ve got a underground passage cut jist like you read about in dime novels. Oh, I tell you it’s bully! We’ve got feather beds and eat off chiny dishes. We only take our beer out of silver mugs——”

“You lie,” broke in Schnitz laughing; “we keep our beer in silver kegs and drink it outer gold steins.”

“You’re fooling me, boys,” said I, in dismay, an icy coldness striking around my heart.

“Not much, you son of a gun!” cried Red. “It’s you who are trying to fool us. Hey fellers! Here we are! Let’s initiate Detective Kean!”

Can you fancy my feelings at that moment?

If you can’t try and fancy them at the next, when I suddenly found myself surrounded by twenty or thirty of the toughest-looking specimens I ever laid my eyes on.

We had reached the grove now, and a man seemed to spring from behind every tree.

I saw that my midnight mission was already accomplished.

Make no mistake—I had joined the gang!

It was no use to attempt to defend myself.

They were around me like a pack of wolves in an instant, a dozen hands held me, a dozen more were going through my clothes, possessing themselves of revolvers, knives, money—everything, even to my official shield, which, like a fool, I had loose in my trousers’ pocket.

If ever I felt sick it was then, but I had hope.

The voice which talked to me through the lumber yard fence was Old King Brady’s.

He ought to be on hand with a posse of police even now.

“Oh, you needn’t look for your friends,” cried Red McCann sneeringly. “We seen you talking with them down by the lumber yard. We’ve fixed all that—we’ve given ’em the proper steer.

“Hey fellers!” he added, “this is the bloke what tought he was goin’ ter ring in wid us. What’ll we do wid him! It’s for you to say.”

“Punch him! Slug him! Shoot him! Drown him?”

These and several other pleasing suggestions were offered by the crowd.

Where was Old King Brady?

Was it as Red claimed that he had been thrown off the scent.

I felt that I was lost then, and I am willing to admit that I gave myself up to die, for they fell upon me like savages, kicking and beating me, dragging me at last to the edge of the rocky bluffs which overhung the East river, and pushing me over.

Before I knew what was coming I went whirling through the air with frightful velocity, striking the water below with a resounding splash.

That is the way I joined the gang!

Never shall I forget the moment when I rose to the surface and began struggling with that terrible current which sweeps through the narrow channel between Blackwell’s Island the New York shore.

It seemed hours since I had fallen, yet it could scarce have been seconds.

Up on the hill I could hear men shouting, and as I straggled toward the rocks I saw Old King Brady and his policemen appear on the bluffs and look down.

“Help! help! help!” I shouted, but the wind swept my voice over to the island. To my despair I saw Old King Brady turn away and I knew that he had not heard.

“Help! help! Help, Mr. Brady!” called another voice right before me as if in echo of my own.

I raised my eyes and looked ahead.

I was near the rocks now, swimming as well at my bruised and frozen limbs would permit.

There, crouching upon them, I saw the figure of one of the gang whom I instantly recognized as a fellow who had been particularly active in the attack upon myself.

Oh, how my heart sank!

I turned on my back and was about to strike out into the deep channel, when suddenly I saw Old King Brady coming back to the edge of the bluff.

“Hold on, Sam. Hold on! Don’t go back for God’s sake!” called the fellow on the rocks in a familiar voice.

He leaned forward, caught my foot, and began dragging me in shore.

Did I resist him?

Oh, no! I guess not.

I was so surprised, so overcome, that I think I must have fainted.

When I came to myself a moment later, I was lying on the rocks above the reach of the tide, and bending over me were Old King Brady and the young tough.

“Kean! Kean! rouse yourself!” exclaimed the detective. “I was just a moment or two slow. Thank goodness! he’s coming round all right again! You’ve been deceived, Kean; they’re on to you——”

“Well, I should think I might know it,” I answered, somewhat testily. “I’ve been sucked in, fooled, played with—it’s a wonder I wasn’t killed.”

“Which you might have been if it hadn’t been for our friend here,” he answered, glancing at the young man who had appeared upon the rocks. “It’s all right though. You’ve tracked ’em here, and that’s been the means of bringing about just what we want, or will be. This young man is going to show us the way into the sewer, he says.”

“To turn informer?” said I. “Why, he’s one of the gang, you know.”

“Yes, yes, and here come my gang down the rocks at last. Now, then, young man, pilot the way, and I’ll make it worth your while, you can be very sure.”

He raised his lantern, which he had drawn from his pocket, and threw its light before the villain’s face, starting back as he did so with an exclamation of surprise.

“Dave! Dave Doyle! It can’t be,” he burst out.

“But it is, though, Mr. Brady,” was the quiet reply. “You wouldn’t trust me, so I had to do this job myself. I’ve done it too. Call your men, get ready your revolvers. I’m going to show you the secret way into the sewer, and there’s nothing in the world to prevent you from capturing the whole gang.”

Note.—Well, I own I was surprised when my lantern suddenly revealed Dave standing there upon the rocks.

You see, I hadn’t been thinking anything about the fellow, so why should I expect to see him? I was taken all aback.

I presume my readers expected an entirely different termination to this story.

Let me add, so did I.

I thought Sam was succeeding splendidly, I never dreamed that Dave had moved in the matter till I saw through his carefully arranged disguise as we three stood there on the rocks.

I have introduced this case simply to show you how detectives sometimes get left as well as other folks.

It was Dave, not Sam who showed us the secret entrance to the sewer in which the gang had their headquarters, and whither they had now retreated in fancied security. I had not been deceived by the false “steer.”

But I have not space enough left to tell how we captured them.

Let it suffice to say that we did capture them, that we scooped them in completely, and during the brief fight none fought better than Dave Doyle who captured his cousin with his own hands.

To this day I doubt if Mr. Patsy Malloy knows that it was Dave.

We broke up the sewer gang forever, and sent a lot of them over to the island, and now for the point I want to bring out strong.

Every man to his own kind.

That’s the best rule a detective has to follow.

If it is hard to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, it is equally hard to make a sow’s ear out of a silk purse.

I tried to make a tough out of Sam Kean, and I failed.

Why, Dave, who had secretly joined the sewer gang a week before Sam got ready to begin, told me that they saw through Sam from the very start.

“He couldn’t fool ’em, Mr. Brady,” he said. “I was awful sorry I couldn’t warn him, and I would have done so if I’d knowed he was going to come that night, but I didn’t until it was too late. I meant all along to tell him in time.”

“Why couldn’t he fool ’em, Dave?” I asked.

“Can’t you tell a tough when you see one?”

“I rather think I can.”

“Then so can we tell a gentleman. I’m a tough myself, and I know.”

He was right, but be overstated the case in calling himself a tough.

Dave Doyle had been born among them and brought up among them, but he never was a tough himself, but a thoroughly honest fellow from the word go.

When I intimated that he was not the man for the sewer-gang job, on account of his relationship with the leader, he resolved to show me that he was the man, and he did.

Dave succeeded without an effort where Sam, with all his efforts, failed, and came within an ace of losing his life.

Therefore, I say, every one to his place.

But Sam Kean made a splendid detective. I used him as my society man for years, until he went off at last on his own hook.

So also with Dave. He remained my man for the work in the slums and a better one I never had.

Now then, boys, has all this taught you how to become a detective?

I’m afraid not.

I’m afraid that after all you feel disappointed that I have not laid down some cast-iron rule which will throw you into the high tide of success in our business like the touch of Aladdin’s lamp.

Let me say to the disappointed ones confidentially give up the idea of ever becoming a detective.

It will be just as well, in fact, a great deal better.

If you can’t see the force of all my remarks, if you can’t learn the lessons contained in the cases cited, believe the old man when he tells that your genius runs in other channels, and you will do better to leave the detective business severely alone.

As for the rest of you—you who have read this little book and enjoyed it, I mean—there is at least reason to believe that you might make successful detectives if you have a mind to persevere.

But is the game worth the candle?

Think what a detective’s life means.

Hard work, exposed to cold, hunger, thirst, great danger, and every privation. I’ve been through all of these things, and just so sure as you embark in the business you’ll find yourselves there too.

Another thing which I haven’t mentioned that shouldn’t be forgotten. It is the social position which the detective occupies—always has and always will.

By nine men out of ten he is looked upon as a spy, and regarded with dislike and distrust.

A detective can have but few friends; many have none.

Men may flatter him and praise his shrewdness, but they will ever shun him and keep him at arm’s length.

I have grown rich at the business—very rich—but let me say right here that I am one in a thousand.

Most of our detectives work hard and suffer much, and in the end die poor and despised.

If you don’t believe me hunt up some detective and ask him; he’ll tell you the same thing.

Still if you must be a detective start right and be honest, and you will always be able to respect yourself, no matter what others may think.

ARE YOU READING

“Work AND Win”

IT CONTAINS

The Great Fred Fearnot Stories

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Read the Following Titles:

No.

294 Fred Fearnot’s Wall Street Game; or, Fighting the Bucket Shops.

295 Fred Fearnot’s Society Circus; or, The Fun That Built a School-House.

296 Fred Fearnot’s Wonderful Courage; or, The Mistake of the Train Robber.

297 Fred Fearnot’s Friend from India, and the Wonderful Things He Did.

298 Fred Fearnot and the Poor Widow; or, Making a Mean Man Do Right.

299 Fred Fearnot’s Cowboys; or, Tackling the Ranch Raiders.

300 Fred Fearnot and the Money Lenders; or, Breaking Up a Swindling Gang.

301 Fred Fearnot’s Gun Club; or, Shooting for a Diamond Cup.

302 Fred Fearnot and the Braggart; or, Having Fun with an Egotist.

303 Fred Fearnot’s Fire Brigade; or, Beating the Insurance Frauds.

304 Fred Fearnot’s Temperance Lectures; or, Fighting Rum and Ruin.

305 Fred Fearnot and the “Cattle Queen”; or, A Desperate Woman’s Game.

306 Fred Fearnot and the Boomers; or, The Game that Failed.

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