Traced and Tracked; Or, Memoirs of a City Detective

by James M'Govan

Yorky, having already arranged to lose, modestly hinted that, for a substantial consideration, he would be willing to come in second.

“Second? whew! then who’d be first?” said the patron, not looking greatly pleased with the proposal. “The Gander would walk off with the stakes. He’d be sure to come in first. Could you not let Birrel get to the front?”

“It might be managed,” said Yorky, with a significant wink.

“Then manage it;” and the price of the “management” was thrust into his hand in bank notes, and the matter settled.

Yorky counted the money, and ran up in his mind all that The Gander had on the race, and decided that the old soldier would promptly refuse to lose the race in favour of Birrel. The money was not enough to stand halving, so Yorky decided to keep it all, and also to “pot” a little more by the new turn things had taken. He therefore passed the word to a boon companion to put all his spare money on Birrel, and then took his place among the competitors dressing for the race. The start was made, and, as all had expected, Yorky and The Gander gradually drew together, and then moved out to the front. Birrel at the last round was a very bad third, while the other runners were nowhere, and evidently only remaining on the track in the faint hope of some unforeseen accident taking place to give one of them the chance of a place. They had not long to wait. Yorky, running at his swiftest, and apparently in splendid form, about three yards in front of The Gander, instead of slackening his speed as he had arranged, suddenly reeled and fell to the ground right in front of his companion. The result may be guessed. The Gander was on the obstruction before he knew, and sprawling in a half-stunned condition a yard in front of Yorky’s body, while Birrel, amid a yell from the spectators, drew up and shot ahead. The yell roused The Gander, and he feebly scrambled to his feet, and made a desperate effort for the first place, but all in vain, for Birrel touched the tape before him, and he was second in everything but swearing. To the surprise of all, Yorky did not rise to his feet, and remained to all appearance insensible for five minutes after he had been tenderly carried to the dressing tent. Of course there was a protest of the most vigorous description to the referee by The Gander, who not only found that he had laid his money the wrong way, and disappointed numerous friends who had followed his advice, but was not even to have the meagre satisfaction of sharing the first prize. But under the impression that Yorky had simply over-exerted himself, and fainted on the course, the referee, who possibly had money on the result, refused to listen to the appeal, and Birrel got the prize. The Gander denounced Yorky with great vehemence, but was met with the most solemn protestations of innocence. He then put on his clothes and left the tent in a bad temper, but in leaving the grounds was accorded a “reception” which did not tend to soothe his feelings. A dozen or so of his friends, who had received his private “tip” as to the way the race was to go, gathered round the supposed traitor, and, before the police could interfere, had him beaten almost to a jelly. The poor Gander was removed in a cab to the Infirmary to have his wounds dressed, while the elated and successful Yorky went to enjoy himself with his ill-gotten gains.

When the two met again, The Gander appeared to have recovered his temper, and listened to Yorky’s explanations of the mishap on the course as pleasantly as if he believed them, which was very far from being the case. Then Yorky so far unbent as to spend some of his money in drinks for The Gander, and was foolish enough to believe that he had cheated the stupid-looking Scotchman very nicely, and that he would hear no more of the matter.

The races had taken place during the New Year holidays, and while the pantomimes were running at the theatres. In one of these The Gander was engaged as a “super.,” and it was known to him that the treasurer was in the habit of leaving the theatre for his home, at the foot of Broughton Street, late every night, carrying under his arm or in his hand a tin box resembling a cash-box. This box contained nothing but metal checks, which the treasurer counted at his home. All the money drawn at the doors remained in possession of the manager. Had Yorky not been an unusually cunning man it is probable that The Gander would have manipulated him direct, but as it was, he was forced to confide in another. A loafing acquaintance of Yorky’s seemed a suitable tool, and he was engaged and primed accordingly. Bob Slogger had himself an old grudge against Yorky, so, on the whole, perhaps a better choice could not have been made.

The opportunity came when Bob and Yorky were drinking together one afternoon, when the former incidentally remarked that they were doing immense business at the theatre, and making piles of money. Yorky only grunted in reply. It seemed hard that any one but him should be making money, and he did not like the subject.

“I got it out of The Gander that the treasurer can hardly carry the money home some nights,” continued Slogger, repeating his lesson. “He lives at the foot of Broughton, and carries it there in a tin box every night about half-past eleven. I could do with that boxful of silver on a Saturday night.”

“Ah! Saturday night? is there most in it then?” observed Yorky, suddenly rousing into deep interest.