“My friend, Shearman, can tell you tales of detective life for a week at a stretch,” observed Cartridge, with a smile; “and mind you a good many of his stories are both interesting and instructing. One thing I will say for him, he is never backward in obliging.”
“Wal, I hope we learn something from each other,” observed the American. “It is by the interchange of thought, and knowing something of other men’s experiences, is addition to our own, that we may eventually become smart officers. That’s my opinion, I make it a rule to listen to all people have to say, whether they be wise or otherwise.”
“That’s right enough,” returned Cartridge.
So here goes,” exclaimed the Yankee.
CHAPTER CXXIV.
STOLEN LETTERS—AN AMERICAN DETECTIVE’S STORY.
“The Post-office,” said Mr. Shearman, “is one of those institutions where scrupulous honesty is required, where very inadequate pay is given—a man is expected to slave like a mule or a camel for something under a pound a week, and to resist temptation.
“Some do it, others do not—they fall. Possibly these latter have wives and children, and cannot help thinking of them as a letter passes through their hands with a little coin inside. It is not a large sum, but it is more than half a week’s wages to them, and would enable them to do something for the ‘young ones.’
“The post-office, or more correctly the public, is robbed to a large extent annually, and it is impossible to put a stop to these depredations, for although the offenders are detected in some instances, and brought to justice, others escape and become hardened in crime.
“During the year of the last Great Exhibition these robberies became so frequent that it was found necessary to adopt some extraordinary means to check them. The utmost vigilance was exercised by the officials, but they found their efforts unavailing.