“UNABLE TO STOP MYSELF, I FELL HEADLONG OVER HIS BODY.”
It appeared that he had tired of the rough life of the plains, and after a course of study had become a telegraph operator in Denver.
While there he had been approached by a gang of wire-tappers[2] with a view to his becoming a confederate, but he had refused. A few weeks later he heard of their capture, and went to see the trial and conviction of the entire gang.
[2] Those who intercept telegraph messages by establishing secret connections on branch wires, thus gaining news of races in advance of the general public.
Now, however, they were again at large, for he had recognised their leader that very day in the streets of San Francisco, and without a doubt he was engaged in his old nefarious business.
My companion’s idea was to make a round of the city pool-rooms, where they received news of the races by wire, and, if he encountered the “wire-tapper,” force him by threats of exposure to divulge what horses he was going to back. “There might be some brisk fun,” he said. “Would you care to come and see it?”
This appealed to me rather more than the theatre, and we accordingly started a careful tour of every pool-room in the city. They were dark, dusty places, swarming with a heterogeneous collection of humanity that ceaselessly shuffled and elbowed round boards bearing notices of the odds and winners, while a sleek gentleman in faultless attire stood on a rostrum at the end of the room and acted as “bookie.”
The fruitlessness of my companion’s search was growing a trifle monotonous, when, on entering the fourth of these rooms, he seized my arm and nodded in the direction of a tall, stout man who had emerged from the crowd and stood counting over a large roll of bills. At last he seemed satisfied, slipped an elastic band round the roll, and strode out into the street.
“Come on,” whispered my companion, excitedly; “that’s my man.”