Chapter XII: “one of the Boys.”

“Hello! What’s up, now?”

Nick Carter, sitting in his room, at the Windsor Hotel, on Dearborn Street, looked up with a smile, as Chick rushed into the room and hastened to the window.

“Nothing special.”

Chick peered carefully through the blinds as he spoke.

“I’m glad you came in early to-night,” said Nick, “for I am feeling a trifle annoyed.”

“About what?”

“It’s taking altogether too much time to get this man Parks back to Sing Sing.”

Chick turned out the gas, threw the window blinds wide open, and sat down in front of the window.

“I have a little surprise for you. Parks is at present trying to renew acquaintance with two famous high-power burglars, Gilmore and Geary.”

“What! Have you see him--Parks, I mean?”

“He is there at the Gilmore chop house.”

Chick then explained all that had taken place in the restaurant that evening.

“And what was the paper you got hold of in the room?” asked Nick.

“That’s just what I’d like to know. You see, I dropped it in the scuffle before I had a chance to look at it.”

“What did it look like?”

“It was a drawing of some kind.”

Nick pondered a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “that there are no charges against Gilmore and Geary. I’d run them in to-night.”

“Were they acquitted when last arrested?”

“Yes; by perjury.”

“Well, there will soon be a charge against them,” said Chick.

“What do you mean?”

“The paper I found on the table was a drawing of some kind.”

“You said that before.”

“Yes, and that Gilmore chophouse is next door to a bank. Do you begin to catch on?”

“I was wondering if you had the same idea as myself,” said Nick. “I see you have. We will postpone the rearrest of Parks until we get ready to bag the other villains. What are you looking at out there?”

Chick pointed across the street.

“Do you see that man standing there by the cigar store?” he asked.

“Certainly.”

“Well, that’s the man who followed me from the chophouse.”

“You know who it is, of course?”

“No,” said Chick, with a laugh, “my acquaintance with crooks is not so extensive as is that of my chief.”

“Well, it’s Nixon, the all-around crook from New York,” replied the detective. “I wonder what he’s up to now?”

This last remark was caused by Nixon stepping out on the walk and stopping two men who were passing.

“They’re a tough-looking pair,” said Chick, “and he seems to be well acquainted with them. I believe they are going away together.”

Instead of starting away, however, the three men stepped into the cigar store and stood there by the counter, Nixon never taking his eyes from the doorway through which Chick had entered the hotel.

Nick began to change his clothes.

In about five minutes he looked like the prosperous advance agent of a negro minstrel company--one of the fellows who always talk show, no matter where they are, and who want everybody with whom they come in contact to know that they belong to the “perfesh.”

“How’s this?” he asked. “This will be apt to take down there in the chophouse, won’t it?”

“I should say so. Shall I go along?”

“Not with me, and not in that rig,” was the reply, and the next moment the detective was on his way across the street to the cigar store, having left the hotel by a side entrance.

It took but a moment for Nick to get into conversation with Nixon, for the crook was quick to recognize “one of the boys,” and Nick declared, on entering the cigar store, that there wasn’t a decent chophouse in the whole city of Chicago.

The two toughs stepped back, and the detective and Nixon were soon on their way to the restaurant.

The first thing Nick saw, on entering the place, was the open door of the private room.

Parks stood there pointing out.

Behind him were Gilmore and Geary.

“There comes Nixon now,” Nick heard Parks say, “and we may as well see what he has to say.”

Nick seated himself at a table and ordered a chop, and Nixon went back to the private room.

In a moment the two men who had left Nixon at the cigar store entered the place and sat down at the rear table.

The waiter seemed to know them, for he went back and opened a conversation with them.

Nick could not hear what they were saying, for the distance was too great, but he could now and then catch a word.

The men were talking of highway robbery and burglary.

In a few moments Nixon joined the two men, and then the waiter went away.

“I tell you, it’s a sure thing,” Nick heard Nixon say; “for he’s up there at the Windsor Hotel.”

“How you goin’ ter git ’im out?” demanded one of the men.

“That’s easy enough,” was the reply, and then the men talked in whispers again.

The detective laughed, softly to himself.

“They’ll have a nice job coaxing Chick to come out and be killed,” he thought.

Presently a muscular-looking young fellow entered the room and seated himself at a table not far from that occupied by Nick.

His oily trousers were thrust into the tops of a pair of heavy, unpolished boots, and he wore a baggy, blue woolen shirt under his rough coat, which smelled of machine oil. No vest or suspenders were in sight, and his closely cropped head was covered with a greasy felt hat.

He looked like an iron worker out for a midnight lunch.

He ordered a light meal and took out a huge roll of bills, as if to pay for it in advance.

Nick saw Nixon watching the money enviously.

“Now there’ll be a picnic,” he thought, wondering how the attempt to rob the young mechanic would be made.

He did not think Gilmore would allow any work of the kind on the premises, for it would be certain to become known, and would direct the attention of the police to the place, a thing which the burglar could by no means afford to have done.

Nick’s chop was finished by this time, but he ordered a cup of coffee and a cigar, and sat there smoking and waiting.

Before long one of the toughs walked over to where the young mechanic was sitting.

“I’ve just been strikin’ de boss fer a lunch,” he said, with a grin, “an’ I couldn’t make it stick. Can’t you help me out?”

The mechanic motioned the bum to take a chair, and beckoned to a waiter.

“Fill him up,” he said, shortly. Nick started at the sound of his voice, and then a pleased smile crept over his face.

In a moment the seeming mechanic took out his money again to pay for what the tough had ordered.

The tough sprang from his chair and made a grab for the roll of bills.

The next moment he was one of the most surprised men in Chicago.

His hand did not get within a foot of the coveted prize.

His intended victim had been expecting just such a move.

As the tough leaned forward he caught the other’s right square on the throat, and went down to the floor like a log.

The mechanic went on eating his lunch.

But the affair was not to be allowed to pass off so quietly.

The fallen man’s companion, Nixon, and three or four waiters made for the seeming mechanic, and in a moment all was confusion.

The young fellow put up a hot fight, and the chophouse people were sent tumbling around on the floor in great shape.

Nick watched the battle curiously for a moment, and then sprang to his feet with an exclamation of anger.

There were five to one, and yet the waiters were arming themselves with clubs and meat cleavers.

The detective reached the scene just in time.

A cowardly waiter was aiming a blow at the seeming mechanic from behind, which would have ended the fight right there.

He was not striking with his fist, but held a heavy hatchet in his hand.

Without saying a word, Nick struck out, and the waiter went halfway over a table before he fell.

The dishes, with which the table had been loaded, struck the floor about the time the waiter did, and there was a great crash as the fellow floundered around among the damaged crockery.

The door of the private room was now opened, and the three high-power burglars, who had been perfecting their schemes there, rushed out.

Nixon and his gang drew back, leaving Nick and the seeming mechanic standing by the overturned table.

Gilmore dashed forward and seized the young man by the collar.

“You’ll go over the road for this,” he shouted.

The young fellow threw out his hip and caught the burglar around the body.

It was a pretty case of hip-lock, and Gilmore carried another table to the floor when he went down.

“It’s a conspiracy to rob the place,” cried Geary. “Throw them out and call the police.”

But the employees had had enough of trying to throw the two men out of the place, and they held back.

Geary began pounding on the floor of the room.

“That’s a signal,” whispered Nick, to the seeming mechanic. “If a door leading into the cellar is opened now, get down there, if you can, while I amuse the people up here.”

“All right,” replied Chick, “but you ought to be getting out before long. They’ll suspect it’s a scheme.”

Gilmore arose from the floor, brushing milk, butter and sugar from his clothing, and started for the door.

“This is no chance fight,” he shouted. “These men came here on purpose to get up a row.”

“You lie,” said Chick, coolly, “one of your toughs tried to rob me, and this gentleman came to my assistance.”

Before Gilmore could reply a back door was opened, and three hard-looking men rushed into the room.

“There come the men who are putting in the electric-drill machinery,” whispered Nick. “Now, look out for hot work.”

The two detectives moved toward the door, but the gang closed in upon them.