“From the time you start him with those offices in Broad Street, our party's business habits are hop and faro bank. The offices are there; the clerks and the blackboards and the stock tickers and the tape baskets are there; but our party, more'n to butt in about three times a week and leave some crazy orders to sell Blackberry Traction, is never there. He's either in Mott Street, and a Chink cookin' hop for him; or he's in Barclay Street with those Indians, and they handin' him out every sort of brace from an 'end-squeeze' or a 'balance-top,' where they give him two cards at a clatter, to a 'snake' box, where they kindly lets him deal, but do him just the same. Our party lose over a half-million in that Barclay Street deadfall during the past Year.” “I must, then,” said I, and I felt the irony of it, “have been indirectly contributing to the riches of our friend, the Chief of Police, since you once told me he was a principal owner of the Barclay Street place.” Inspector McCue shrugged his shoulders professionally, and made no response. Then I questioned him as to the charge of embezzlement; for I had not owned the heart to read the story in the press. “It's that Blackberry push,” replied Inspector McCue, “and I don't think it's on the level at that. It looks like the Blackberry president--and, by the way, I've talked with the duffer, and took in all he would tell--made a play to get the drop on our party. And although the trick was put up, I think he landed it. He charges now that our party is a welcher, and gets away with a bunch of bonds--hocked 'em or something like that--which this Blackberry guy gives him to stick in as margins on some deal. As I say, I think it's a put-up job. That Blackberry duck--who is quite a flossy form of stock student and a long shot from a slouch--has some game up his sleeve. He wanted things rigged so's he could put the clamps on our party, and make him do as he says, and pinch him whenever it gets to be a case of must. So he finally gets our party where he can't holler. I makes a move to find out the inside story; but the Blackberry sport is a thought too swift, and he won't fall to my game. I gives it to him dead that he braced our party, and asks him, Why? At that he hands me the frozen face, springs a chest, and says he's insulted. “But the end of it is this: Our party is now headed for Frisco. When he comes ashore, the cops out there will pick him up and keep a tab on him; we can always touch the wire for his story down to date. Whenever you say the word, I can get a line on him.” “Bring me no tales of him!” I cried. “I would free myself of every memory of the scoundrel!”