CHAPTER IX.
BOB ASSUMES A DISGUISE.
At the close of business hours, Felix Mortimer sauntered up Broadway with something of an air of triumph about him. His jaw was still swollen, and doubtless pained him not a little.
Another boy passed up Broadway at the same time, and only a little way behind Mortimer.
It was Bob Hunter, and he managed to keep the same distance between himself and young Mortimer, whom, in fact, he was “shadowing.” Of course, Mortimer knew nothing of this. In fact, he did not know such a boy as Bob Hunter existed.
At the post office Felix Mortimer turned into Park Row. He stopped and read the bulletins at the Mail and Express office. Then he bought an evening paper, and, standing on the steps of the World office, looked it over hastily.
Now he moved on up Publishers’ Row, passing the Times, the Tribune, and the Sun buildings, and walked along Chatham Street. Presently he emerged into the Bowery. Now he walked more rapidly than he had been doing, so that Bob had to quicken his pace to keep him in sight.
At the corner of Pell Street and the Bowery he met a young man who seemed to be waiting for him.
“I’ve been hanging round here for ’most half an hour,” said he, as if displeased.
“I’m here on time,” replied Felix; “just half past five. Come, let’s have a glass of beer.”
Peter Smartweed was the name of this young fellow, as Bob afterwards found out.
When Felix and his friend passed into the drinking saloon, Bob followed them as far as the door; then he turned back, and sought the disguise of a bootblack.
A young knight of the brush stood near by, with his blacking box slung over his shoulder. Bob arranged with him for the use of it for a few moments, promising to pay over to him all the proceeds he made thereby. He also exchanged his own hat for the cap the boy had on, and, with this head gear pulled down over the left side of his face, the appearance of Bob Hunter was much changed. His accustomed step, quick, firm, and expressive, was changed to that of the nerveless, aimless boy—a sort of shuffle.
Thus disguised, he approached Felix Mortimer and his companion, who were sitting at a table with a partially filled schooner of beer before each of them.
“Shine? shine, boss?” said Bob, in a strange voice.
No response was made by the convivial youths.
“Two for five!” continued Bob, persistently. “Two reg’lar patent leathers for only five cents!”
Peter looked at his boots. They were muddy. Then he argued with himself that Felix had paid for the beer, so it seemed to him that he could not even up the score in any less expensive way than by paying for the shines.
“Do you mean you will give us both a shine for five cents?” said Peter.
“Well, see that they are good ones, now, or I’ll not pay you a cent.”
Bob commenced work on the shoes very leisurely. He seemed the embodiment of stupidity, and blundered along in every way possible to prolong the time.
“How would you like to climb down, Mort, and shine shoes for a living?” said Peter Smartweed, jokingly.
“Perhaps I wouldn’t mind it if I was stupid as the kid fumbling around your shoes seems to be,” replied Felix, in a more serious mood than his companion.
bob hunter plays the detective.
“Well, I think you looked even more stupid than this young Arab last night, when you lay upon the floor.”
“Well, I guess you would have felt stupid, too, if you had got such a clip as I did,” retorted Felix, as he nursed his swollen jaw with his hand.
“It was a stunning blow, for a fact. John L. Sullivan couldn’t have done it neater. I didn’t think, Mort, that that young countryman could hit such a clip, did you?”
“No, I didn’t; and I’m mighty sure you don’t realize now what a stinging blow he hit me. You talk about it as if it didn’t amount to much. Well, all I’ve got to say is, I don’t want to see you mauled so, but I wish you knew how good it felt to be floored the way I was.”
“No, thank you,” said Peter; “I don’t want any of it. But you looked so comical, as you fell sprawling, that I couldn’t help laughing. I believe I would have laughed if you had been killed.”
Bob Hunter’s ears were now wide open.
“I couldn’t see anything to laugh about,” said Felix, bitterly.
“That isn’t very strange, either. You naturally wouldn’t, under the circumstances,” laughed young Smartweed.
“Come, now, let up,” said Felix. “Your turn may come.”
“I expect it will, if this young farmer ever gets after me.”
“But you don’t expect him to get out, do you?”
“I hadn’t thought much about it. My part of the programme was to get him into old Gunwagner’s den, and I did it without any accident.”
Felix looked hard at his companion. He knew the last part of this sentence was a sarcastic thrust at him.
Bob grew excited, and found it difficult to restrain himself. He felt certain now that these two young villains were talking about his friend Herbert Randolph.
“No accident would have happened to me, either, if he hadn’t hit me unawares,” protested young Mortimer, with a bit of sourness about his manner. “I allow I could get away with him in a fair fight.”
“Oh, no, you couldn’t, Mort; he is too much for you. I could see that in a minute, by the way he handled himself.”
Young Mortimer’s face flushed. He didn’t like the comparison.
“Well, he won’t bother me again very soon,” said he, vindictively.
“Didn’t they tumble to anything crooked at the bank?” asked Peter, after a few moments’ serious thought.
“No.”
“I don’t see why. The circumstances look suspicious.”
“Well, they didn’t suspect the truth.”
“You’re in luck, then, that is all I have to say.”
“I shall be, you mean, when we get him out of the way.”
“He seems to be pretty well out of your way now.”
“But that won’t last forever. He must be got out of New York, that’s all. Old Gunwagner will not keep him round very long, you may be sure of that.”
“You don’t know how to shine a shoe,” growled Smartweed to our young detective. “See the blacking you have put on the upper! Wipe it off, I say; at once, too.”
Bob’s blood boiled with indignation, and he was about to reply sharply, when he remembered that he was now acting the detective, and so he said:
“All right, boss; I’ll fix it fer yer;” and he removed the superfluous blacking with great care. There was no longer any doubt in his mind about Herbert being a prisoner. He was satisfied that his friend was in the clutches of old Gunwagner, and he knew from the conversation that he was in danger of being lost forever to New York and to his friends.
The situation was an alarming one. Bob pictured vividly the worst possibilities of our hero’s fate.
Presently, after young Smartweed had lighted a cigarette and taken a few puffs, he said, absentmindedly:
“So you are going to send him away from New York?”
“Of course, you don’t s’pose we would be very safe with him here, do you?” replied Mortimer.
“Safe enough, so long as he is in old Gunwagner’s cell. But what is to be done with him? Send him back to Vermont?”
“Not much; he won’t go there unless he escapes.”
“It’s rough on the fellow, Mort, to run him off to sea, or to make him a prisoner in the bottom of a coal barge or canal boat. But that is what he is likely to get from that old shark,” said Peter Smartweed, meaning Gunwagner.
“Don’t you get soft hearted now,” replied Felix, in a hard voice.
“I’m not soft hearted, Mort, and you know it, but I don’t like this business, any way.”
“What did you go into it for, then?”
“What do we do anything for? I thought, from what you said, that he was a coarse young countryman. But he don’t seem like it. In fact I believe he is too nice a fellow to be ruined for life.”
“Perhaps you’d better get him out then,” said Mortimer, sarcastically.
“You talk like a fool,” replied Smartweed, testily.
“So do you,” retorted his companion, firing up; and he nursed his aching jaw as if to lend emphasis to his remarks. These explosions suddenly ended the discussion, and as soon as their shoes were polished, the two young villains left the saloon. Mortimer turned up the Bowery, and Smartweed passed into a side street leading towards Broadway.
Bob readily dropped his assumed character of bootblack, and quickly started in pursuit of Felix Mortimer.
The latter went directly home, where he remained for nearly an hour. At the end of this time, he emerged from the house, much to the young detective’s relief. He had waited outside all this time, patiently watching for Felix’s reappearance.
Though cold and hungry, Bob could not afford to give up the chase long enough even to get a bit of lunch. He had made wonderful progress so far in his detective work, and he felt, as he had a right to feel, highly elated over his discoveries.
Now he was shadowing young Mortimer again. Down the Bowery they went till they came to a side street in a disreputable locality. Here they turned towards the East River, and presently Felix Mortimer left the sidewalk and disappeared within the door of an old building.
“So this is Gunwagner’s, is it?” said Bob to himself. “At least I s’pose ’tis, from what them fellers said—Gunwagner—yes, that’s the name. Well, this may not be it, but I’m pretty sure it is,” he continued, reasoning over the problem.
After fixing the house and its locality securely in his mind, and after having waited till he satisfied himself that Mortimer intended remaining there for a time, he made a lively trip to City Hall Park, where he joined young Flannery.
“Well, Bob, have you struck anything?” said Tom, instantly, and with much more than a passing interest.
“Yes; I’ve struck it rich—reg’lar detective style, I tell you, Tom,” said Bob, with pride and enthusiasm. And then he briefly related all his discoveries.
“Nobody could er worked the business like you, Bob,” said Tom, admiringly.
“Well, I did throw a little style into it, I think myself,” replied Bob. “But,” he continued, “there’s no time now for talking the matter over. We’ve got some work to do. I’ve got the place located, and I want you to go with me now, and see what we can do.”
Within five minutes the two boys were on their way to Christopher Gunwagner’s, and as they passed hurriedly along the streets they formed a hasty plan for immediate action—a plan cunningly devised for outwitting this miserable old fence and his villainous companions.