“Produce the bonds, Shinburn,” said Young, in a low, angry tone he tried hard to command, “and I’ll let you men leave here to go where you will. I think you know that stranger things than this have happened.”
“Have a talk with our counsel,” was Shinburn’s stereotyped reply, and, repeated, it seemed to fire the captain to a pitch of rashness.
“I tell you,” he cried, “if you’ll put that fifty-three thousand dollar batch of Union Pacifics in my hands before the Maryland police reach here, I promise you and your whole gang freedom.” Young waited for Shinburn’s answer. If his proposition was declined, the captain saw his twenty thousand dollar reward dwindling.
“No use talking about it,” said Shinburn; “you’ll have to see our attorneys.”
Captain Johnny was white with anger and disappointment. He roared out an order that the prisoners be taken down to their cells, and they were, and none too gently.
CHAPTER XIV
PLOTTING AGAINST YOUNG
When Captain Young left Police Headquarters for Maryland, it was whispered that he’d gone to Albany. This rumor was confused with another, to the effect that he’d been called South. The conflicting stories served to make anxious my good friends in the Detective Bureau, who were bound to give me the best possible information. Detective Phil. Farley was among the first to hear of the arrest of Shinburn and our agent, and he hurried to me with the facts, including the different stories of Young’s sudden disappearance from headquarters. I was at my Brevoort Stables at 114 Clinton Place, now on the city map as West Eighth Street, when Farley came. To say that I was excited over the news would be only half the truth. I knew what sort of a man Captain John Young was, and that he’d ride roughshod over police associate or crook, in furthering his selfish pursuit after gain. In my mind there was no question that he had gone to Albany after requisition papers and would attempt to play a game of great account to himself. In accordance with this I sent a messenger to look up ex-Judge Stuart, one of my retained counsel. Word came back that he was out of town and would not return until late in the evening. This was disheartening, but as the judge was a shrewd student of the law and had a good understanding of the rights of the prisoners in our case, there wasn’t anything else to do but await his arrival.
It was late in the night when he put in an appearance, but his coming was the signal for a grand hustling. The judge, upon being acquainted with the facts as they came to me, said that Young was undoubtedly in a great hurry to get the prisoners out of town and into the hands of the Maryland officers, and that, if he succeeded, we would have a hard time in fighting the game.
“So,” said the judge, “we must get a writ to stay him, and to do that we must tumble some obliging judge out of bed, no matter what the hour may be.” I suggested Judge McCunn, my next-door neighbor, ever an accommodating legal gentleman when a writ was desired on short notice.