Gallegher and Other Stories | Page 5

to take a cab.
The train to the city seemed to Gallegher to drag itself by inches. It
stopped and backed at purposeless intervals, waited for an express to
precede it, and dallied at stations, and when, at last, it reached the
terminus, Gallegher was out before it had stopped and was in the cab
and off on his way to the home of the sporting editor.
The sporting editor was at dinner and came out in the hall to see him,
with his napkin in his hand. Gallegher explained breathlessly that he
had located the murderer for whom the police of two continents were
looking, and that he believed, in order to quiet the suspicions of the
people with whom he was hiding, that he would be present at the fight
that night.
The sporting editor led Gallegher into his library and shut the door.

"Now," he said, "go over all that again."
Gallegher went over it again in detail, and added how he had sent for
Hefflefinger to make the arrest in order that it might be kept from the
knowledge of the local police and from the Philadelphia reporters.
"What I want Hefflefinger to do is to arrest Hade with the warrant he
has for the burglar," explained Gallegher; "and to take him on to New
York on the owl train that passes Torresdale at one. It don't get to
Jersey City until four o'clock, one hour after the morning papers go to
press. Of course, we must fix Hefflefinger so's he'll keep quiet and not
tell who his prisoner really is."
The sporting editor reached his hand out to pat Gallegher on the head,
but changed his mind and shook hands with him instead.
"My boy," he said, "you are an infant phenomenon. If I can pull the rest
of this thing off to-night it will mean the $5,000 reward and fame
galore for you and the paper. Now, I'm going to write a note to the
managing editor, and you can take it around to him and tell him what
you've done and what I am going to do, and he'll take you back on the
paper and raise your salary. Perhaps you didn't know you've been
discharged?"
"Do you think you ain't a-going to take me with you?" demanded
Gallegher.
"Why, certainly not. Why should I? It all lies with the detective and
myself now. You've done your share, and done it well. If the man's
caught, the reward's yours. But you'd only be in the way now. You'd
better go to the office and make your peace with the chief."
"If the paper can get along without me, I can get along without the old
paper," said Gallegher, hotly. "And if I ain't a-going with you, you ain't
neither, for I know where Hefflefinger is to be, and you don't, and I
won't tell you."
"Oh, very well, very well," replied the sporting editor, weakly

capitulating. "I'll send the note by a messenger; only mind, if you lose
your place, don't blame me."
Gallegher wondered how this man could value a week's salary against
the excitement of seeing a noted criminal run down, and of getting the
news to the paper, and to that one paper alone.
From that moment the sporting editor sank in Gallegher's estimation.
Mr. Dwyer sat down at his desk and scribbled off the following note:
"I have received reliable information that Hade, the Burrbank murderer,
will be present at the fight to-night. We have arranged it so that he will
be arrested quietly and in such a manner that the fact may be kept from
all other papers. I need not point out to you that this will be the most
important piece of news in the country to- morrow.
"Yours, etc., MICHAEL E. DWYER."
The sporting editor stepped into the waiting cab, while Gallegher
whispered the directions to the driver. He was told to go first to a
district-messenger office, and from there up to the Ridge Avenue Road,
out Broad Street, and on to the old Eagle Inn, near Torresdale. It was a
miserable night. The rain and snow were falling together, and freezing
as they fell. The sporting editor got out to send his message to the Press
office, and then lighting a cigar, and turning up the collar of his
great-coat, curled up in the corner of the cab.
"Wake me when we get there, Gallegher," he said. He knew he had a
long ride, and much rapid work before him, and he was preparing for
the strain.
To Gallegher the idea of going to sleep seemed almost criminal. From
the dark corner of the cab his eyes shone with excitement, and with the
awful joy of anticipation. He glanced every now and then to where