CHAPTER I.

The Bradys as Custom house detectives.

The Collector of the Port of New York sat in his office in the Custom House with a look of annoyance upon his face.

Several of his chief inspectors were standing about the room with the most uneasy expressions, for they were being censured unmercifully.

“I tell you, gentlemen,” the Collector was saying, angrily, “I am very much disgusted with the poor service your department is giving.  I am determined to stop this wholesale smuggling.  If none of you are capable of doing the work for which you are liberally paid, I’ll have to get somebody to do the work for you.  Do you understand?”

“But, sir,” began one of the inspectors, humbly, “we’ve done our best—­”

“And accomplished nothing!” snapped the Collector.

“How could we, sir?  The smuggler you want us to catch does not resort to the usual tricks such people adopt to avoid paying duty on the diamonds and other precious stones, which you say are smuggled into this country.  It’s because he’s such a sly and clever rogue, that we can’t locate him.  We’ve resorted to every known method to discover the villain, but can’t make any headway.”

“Then you admit you are beaten?”

“Yes,” was the hesitating reply.

“Hum!” grunted the Collector, in tones of contempt.  “A nice lot of government detectives you fellows are to admit such a defeat.  However, I’ve taken the matter into my own hands now.”

“Yours?”

“Yes!  I’ve engaged two of the most skillful men in the Secret Service to run down this smuggler.  I refer to Old and Young King Brady.”

“Indeed!” sneered the inspector, whose pride was wounded.  “I’m sure if we can’t find that smuggler, they can’t.”

“They can’t, eh?” grimly demanded the Collector.  “Well, you’ll find out whether they can or not, Andrew Gibson, for they’ll be here presently to take your work right out of your hands.  Do you hear me?”

With glum looks the inspectors glanced at each other.

It was a bitter pill for them to swallow, to have an outsider come in to do the work they found themselves unable to cope with.

Finally Gibson affected a mocking laugh, and said, derisively: 

“What can a Secret Service man do in a Custom House case, if we men, educated for it, can’t finish a job we find too hard for us?”

“They’ll find the smuggler I’m after,” replied the Collector, banging his fist on the desk to emphasize his remark.  “I’ve got every faith in that remarkable man and boy.  They are the most skillful detectives in the profession.  There’s nothing they can’t do in their own line, and you’ll find it out soon.”

“On police and criminal cases—­”

“On any work!” roared the Collector, excitedly.

“They must be marvels, indeed!” sneered Gibson.