HUNTING AN ANARCHIST.
A THANKSGIVING STORY FOUNDED ON FACT.
BY ALBERT LEE.
When Fred Hallowell graduated from school in the spring of 1893, and passed his final examinations for college, there was every promise that he would have an enjoyable summer vacation followed by four years of pleasant college life. But owing to the panic of 1893 Mr. Hallowell failed in business, and Fred found that instead of going to college he must look about for some sort of position, in order that he might not be an additional drain on the very greatly reduced resources of his parents.
It is not a part of this story to tell of Fred's discouraging endeavors to secure a position in New York. Business men were discharging employés in those days, not engaging new ones. Finally, he managed, through an old acquaintance, to secure a position as reporter on the staff of the Gazette. He started into his new life with an energy that soon attracted the attention of his employers, and it was not long before the city editor began to feel that the new reporter was a reliable man.
The week before Thanksgiving Fred made a few extra dollars by writing a short article for one of the illustrated weeklies, and as Thursday was his regular day "off" he decided that he would use this money to take a little trip up the Hudson to his home, and spend Thanksgiving day with his family. He had just mailed his letter, announcing his intention to visit home, when the city editor called him to his desk and handed him a clipping from one of the morning papers, which stated that a certain Frenchman, suspected of being prominent in anarchistic circles, had visited a French school-ship, then anchored in the North River, and that the officers had recognized him as a dangerous criminal, a fugitive from French justice.
"This may be one of the Star's fakes," said the city editor, "but you go out on the story, and keep at it until you get all the facts. It may take you several days. If you find it's true, we'll make a spread of it, and have the fellow arrested."
Fred was pleased at getting such an important assignment, and looked forward hopefully to some exciting work, although he feared there would be nothing in the story in the end. He went at once on board of the French school-ship, where he found a young lieutenant, who had been officer of the deck a few days before, and who had seen a man whom he thought he recognized as an anarchist he had seen on trial in Paris several years before. He had mentioned this fact to a Star reporter who came aboard for news that evening, simply because he had nothing else to tell him, but he doubted that the man he had seen could be the Paris anarchist, although the latter had escaped from France, and was supposed to have fled to America. His name was Etienne Renard, and the officer gave Fred a description of him. As the reporter left the ship he instinctively asked if there was any news, and the lieutenant told him they expected to sail in a few days for Haiti, and that one seaman had deserted since their arrival in New York harbor. Fred made a paragraph of this information, and sent it down to the Gazette office by messenger.
As he stood on the dock a few minutes later, looking up and down the river, as if he thought some inspiration might come to him from the puffing tugs in midstream, he wondered what he should do next, for he was now left without a clew. He knew the anarchists of New York had several gathering-places over on the east side of the city, but he felt sure that even if Renard frequented any of these, it would be under an assumed name, and he further knew there was no place where a reporter was less welcome than at a resort of anarchists. Nevertheless, he determined to see what he could learn in that quarter, and soon was on his way to a restaurant called "Zum Groben Michel," a place that has acquired more or less notoriety, because of the riotous meetings that have been held by men of anarchistic and nihilistic tendencies within its doors.
He found a number of ugly-looking characters sitting in the place, but none answered to the description of Renard. He asked a few of the neighbors if a Frenchman was ever seen thereabouts, but he received scant courtesy in reply, and no information; and so he went home to think over some new plan of action. The next day he visited the French quarter in the region of Bleecker Street and South Fifth Avenue, and questioned the restaurant-keepers of the neighborhood, but none of them could remember having seen any man answering to Fred's description of Renard. Every day he visited the east-side restaurant, but all his work availed him nothing. He was about to give up the search as futile a couple of days later; but on his way down town to the office to tell the city editor of his failure, he stopped off at Bleecker Street, and went into one of the cheap cafés to make final inquiries from a fat little French proprietor whom he had found most amiable on a previous visit.