ority
worth Kansas
[Illustration: a drawing of a torn ticket.]
On the reverse side in faint penciled characters were
the words: “it to Cook,” From the
blurred appearance of the words it was evident that
a rubber had been used to erase them. These words
had escaped Chip’s notice, but as soon as Mr.
Pinkerton saw them, he said:
“I see it all, Chip. I see it all.
A message was written on the tag, probably giving
some instructions, such as ‘Send it to Cook,’
or ’Give it to Cook,’ and the person sending
it changing his mind about writing his instructions
so openly tried to erase the words with a rubber, but
failing to do it tore the tag up and addressed another
one.
“The package to which this was to have been
tied was sent to some man whose name ends in ’ority
and who was in Leavenworth, Kansas. We can find
that out to-morrow, Chip, so turn in and get some sleep.”
The next morning the books of the company were overhauled,
and after a long, patient and careful search it was
found that on October 23d, two days before the robbery,
a valise had been expressed to a Daniel Moriarity,
Leavenworth, Kansas, charges prepaid, by a man named
John Williams.
That evening Chip left St, Louis for Leavenworth and
Mr. Pinkerton returned to Chicago.
The tramp.
About the middle of November, after the now famous
express robbery had taken place, a man, roughly dressed
in a coarse suit of blue, wearing a woolen shirt open
at the neck, and, knotted around his throat, a gaudy
silk handkerchief, was strolling leisurely along the
east bottoms near Kansas City. His face was tanned
by exposure to the sun, and his shoes had the flattened
and battered condition which is the natural consequence
of a long and weary tramp. He walked as if he
had no particular objective point, and looked like
one of those peripatetic gentry who toil not neither
do they spin, the genus “tramp.” He
complacently puffed a short clay nose-warmer, with
his hands in his pockets, and taking first one side
and then the other of the road, as his fancy dictated,
found himself near the old distillery at the outskirts
of the city.
A saloon near at hand, with its front door invitingly
open, attracted his attention, and the cheering sounds
of a violin, scraping out some popular air, gave a
further impetus to inclination, and the tramp turned
to the open door and entered. Seated on an empty
barrel, his foot executing vigorous time to his own
music, sat the magician of the horse-hair bow.
Leaning against the bar, or seated at the small tables
scattered around, the tramp saw a goodly number of
the disciples of Bacchus, while from an inner room
the clicking of ivory chips and half suppressed expressions
of “I’ll see you an’ go you tenner
better.” “A full house pat, what ’er
ye got,” designated the altar at which the worshipers
of “draw poker” were offering sacrifices.
