At seven that evening, Sheridan asked me out to dinner. We dined with two of his squad and my colleague, George B. Underwood, of the New York _Press_, and at ten o’clock we started for the Garden. Into Harry Stevens’ bar we went, that being the rendezvous for the police who were to do the raiding, and while waiting for the late comers, Sheridan invited us all to a drink. It was pay day at Police Headquarters and pay day on our paper, and when all hands were served, I asked for the bill. Martin would have none of that. He not only insisted on footing it but ordered another round of beer and then came the pay-off. It was time to get going. The raid would soon be in order, and Officer Sheridan was anxious to get his men stationed. He asked for the account, placed his hand in his pocket to pay it, and then he let loose! “Holly Gee, they picked my pocket! They took my pay envelope!” Officer Sheridan was the only one who didn’t enjoy the joke. He pleaded with me not to make mention of the theft in my story, and then he got busy. He made up for his lost bank roll by making every gangster in that arena pay a share of the loss. A battered, bleeding, frightful looking lot of pickpockets, hold-up guys, and confidence men were taken down in the basement, and to the tune of a rubber hose or black jack, they were given unmerciful beatings. There were no more coats stolen or pockets picked at the bike races that week. It was on the occasion of the last go-as-you-please fun in the Garden, a year later, that less than a hundred persons braved the howling wind to see the opening race. The big arena looked like a deserted barn. Almost all those present came on Annie Oakleys, as we called free passes in those days. The half frozen newspapermen covering the race were seated at a long table near the entrance and were busy grinding out their copy and trying to dispel the gloom that hung over the place. Suddenly Tim Hurst, who managed the Garden, was observed beckoning wildly from the other end of the hall. “Come here,” roared Tim, “Quick! Quick! Come here!” Thinking a murder had been committed, we scrambled from our chairs and rushed down to where Tim was standing. “Look! Look!” he excitedly said, pointing to the box office. “See that sucker and his gal buying a ticket!” We all laughed, but that sucker gave us a good story a few minutes later. Sitting in a box above the track, he placed his heavy, fur-lined coat on a chair behind him, while his girl placed her squirrel coat over the rail. The pair looked like aristocratic kids out on a slumming tour. Within ten minutes after entering their box, the man’s coat was stolen right under his nose. He demanded action from Tim Hurst, a fighter of the old school—but Tim paid no attention. “Who told you to come here?” shouted Tim in his well-known way. “Why didn’t you stay where you belong? You got just what was coming to you for going out slumming.”