“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.