CHAPTER XIX

A CLEAN BILL OF HEALTH

Shortly after the Cadiz burglary, having been able to insure myself from arrest at the hands of the New York police by lining their palms with gold, and the life of a criminal having been accepted as a means of regaining my standing, if possible, in New Hampshire, I turned my face east in the belief that all-powerful gold would purchase there what justice, as dealt out at Keene, had withheld from me.

With this object in view I sent for A. V. Lynde, one of my attorneys in the New Hampshire case, and we conferred at great length, with the result that he assured me I would not be convicted should a retrial of the case be had. However, I wanted to get a clean bill of health, and felt disposed to leave no door closed through which I could obtain it. I believed that money would prove the strongest argument. So, after the ground had been thoroughly gone over, it was determined to offer Herbert Bellows, the power behind the burglary charge, two propositions from which to choose. One was that I would surrender for a retrial, provided reasonable bail would be vouchsafed me, with the further promise that if I were acquitted my confiscated property would be returned to me. The second proposition was that if he would consent to the quashing of the indictment a sum not to exceed ten thousand dollars would be paid him.

With these propositions, Mr. Lynde returned to Keene and submitted them to Bellows, through the latter’s attorney. The first was instantly declined. The second would be accepted, provided the bribe was increased to twenty thousand dollars. That price I would not consider for a moment, and the subject was dropped until a year after, when Bellows, through his counsel, sent word that he’d accept ten thousand to wipe out the indictment. There was a meeting, but I declared I’d not pay that sum.

“Well, what will you give us?” asked Bellows’s lawyer.

“Perhaps five thousand,” said Mr. Lynde, carelessly, speaking for me. He added, “We’re somewhat like Judge Doe and his bail proposition--only we subtract, while, as you’ll remember, he worked in addition.”

No agreement was arrived at, and so another twelvemonth passed. Then Bellows’s counsel came to the front again and made Mr. Lynde an offer to accept my last figure. I smile as I recall the sympathetic tone my counsel adopted in replying to Bellows’s man: “Oh, really, I’m so sorry, but you know that five thousand dollar proposition of ours is outlawed--quite outlawed--in fact, a back number.”

The prolonged negotiations had brought the case to a point where Bellows was no longer nibbling at the golden bait,--he was attempting to swallow it whole, now that there appeared to be danger of it vanishing forever.

“We’re open to a proposition,” said his attorney, feebly. “It’s time the matter was closed up.”

Mr. Lynde and I had grown weary of the subject months before, and decided that we would administer the other side a sample of its own medicine. Mr. Lynde said, unenthusiastically, “So far as I’m concerned, I can’t say that my client, at this late day, will pay a single cent. At one time he decided to offer you ten thousand, but that was thrown in his teeth. Then he offered to pay five thousand, but that proposition Mr. Bellows declined. How he feels now I have no idea, and will not know unless I write to him.”

“Suppose you let him know of our offer at once,” said the attorney.

“I’ll see what I can do,” answered Mr. Lynde, in a hopeless way; “but I tell you I don’t believe he’ll pay Bellows five thousand now.”

The proposition was laid before me, but it was not until another year had nearly gone by that I indicated any desire to act. The backing and filling had disgusted me in the extreme. I’d made up my mind not to discuss the subject again until there was a plain indication from Bellows that he was ready to come to the point.

But I had no reason to complain at the next negotiation, for he was willing enough to take my money. His attorney called on Mr. Lynde, and a meeting was arranged in New York, between an attorney named Pritchard, a New York friend of Bellows, and my representative Frank Houghtaling, a clerk in Jefferson Market Police Court, who had served Shinburn and me so well up in Steuben County, where we had our little adventure with Sheriff Smith. As the result of the first meeting there was a second, which took place at Delmonico’s. Bellows was present and so was I. Amid a plentiful flow of wine, Houghtaling handed Bellows three thousand dollars, and the indictment was handed me. That document was destroyed. Thus, after three years, was I given a clean bill of health in New Hampshire.

That winter I paid a hasty visit to my folks, and was astonished to hear that there was a break-jail indictment out against me, and that I was likely to be arrested at any moment. The indictment had been asked for by District Attorney Lane, so I was told, soon after I’d made the deal with Herbert Bellows. It was said that Lane had expected something from Bellows at the quashing of the burglary charge, but had been turned down. Unable to proceed against Bellows, Lane, out of revenge, asked for the break-jail indictment more than three years after the offence was committed, believing, in that manner, he could make void what Bellows had guaranteed me. However despicable this was on the part of the district attorney, it did seem to me that Bellows, who depended upon Lane to quash the burglary indictment, should have been willing to pay his tool a little of the blackmail money I had paid him. But, as usual, I was the greatest sufferer, the centre upon which the storm created by others beat hardest, and I turned about to face the fresh trouble. Instinctively my hand went down in my pocket.

Summoning my brother, I told him I had only a few hours to visit with the folks, for I must be back in New York, as soon as possible, on account of important business matters. Carefully placing two one-hundred dollar bills in an envelope, I sealed it in his presence, handed it to him and said:--

“Go to District Attorney F. F. Lane, and say this to him: ‘My brother George bade me hand you this envelope, and if you retain it, he expects you will put that break-jail indictment in the after pocket in your frock coat, and then sit on a red-hot stove.’”

My brother performed his errand faithfully, and I never heard from that source again, except for an extremely unpleasant, though after all amusing, incident.

In the following June I had completed a four-day visit with my people, and was on my way home. I boarded the train at Bellows Falls, and we stopped at Charlestown, not many miles away, when my attention was attracted by an unusually long wait at the station. I was on the point of asking for the reason, when old Sheriff Stebbins, the chap I met in the sleighride party the night young Woods and I escaped from Keene jail, came into the coach almost out of breath, and cried loudly:--

“I want ye, durn it! Ye’re my pris’ner, George White.”

I was thunderstruck for the instant, to be thus exposed to the other passengers, of which there were quite a number.

“All right, sheriff,” I replied, as coolly as I was able, upon recovering myself, “but isn’t there some mistake? It’s pretty rough to accuse a fellow like this, and to interrupt his journey, too. I’ve been home to see the old folks. What have I done?”

“Never mind--come outen this--I’ll sheow ye what ye’ve done,” he cried excitedly. “There’s some folks as will be sheoutin’ when they git hold on ye thar in Keene.”

So I alighted with him, but in passing, I met “Spress” Babbitt, whom I well knew. He averted his face--purposely, I could see; and I wondered at it. He was the express messenger on the train. I realized that Stebbins had been notified by telegraph that I was a passenger on the way to Charlestown, and that some one who knew me pretty well must have been the informer.

“How did you know I was on the train?” I asked Stebbins.

“‘Spress’ Babbitt seen ye on the platform outen th’ car winder at Bellows Falls.’”

“And telegraphed on to you?”

“Thet’s the size on’t,” grinned Stebbins. I felt like pulling his whiskers, he seemed to enjoy the situation so much. I wasn’t alarmed over the outcome, but I didn’t relish being held up to view in that community after I had gone through so much trouble to fix things.

“And,” I went on sneeringly, “they held the train here until you came?”

“Thet’s wot ‘Spress’ sed he’d dew, an’ he done et, b’ gosh!”

I could have choked Babbitt had I had his little chicken neck in my hands at the moment.

“I hed tew drive five mile, en like sixty, tew,” Stebbins said, as he walked me to a steaming team at the side of the depot. At my request he drove to Eagle Hotel, where I got him in excellent humor through frequent libations in the bar-room.

“Wal, b’ gummany Christmus!” he finally said, with a silly grin, “I give ye more credit ’an ye hev. Thought ye’d hev better sense ’an t’ run kerslam inter my paws. I’ve ben waitin’ t’ git my hooks onter ye ever sense ye bruck outen jail.”

The rascal! I saw at once that he had his mind on getting a reward for my capture, evidently not having heard that both indictments had been done away with.

“Ah, Stebbins, my good fellow, I see you’re after the thousand,” I said, after he had finished taking his measure of my shrewdness.

“Ye kin betcher bottom cent on’t--sartin! Why not?”

“That’s so, sheriff! Yes; why not?” I returned, laughingly. “But what are you going to do with me first?”

“I ruther guess it’s on’y a bit o’ a trot fer my team back t’ jail ye bruck from--sorter like twenty odd mile!” he said, grinning and slapping his hands together in great delight.

“I hope you won’t be in too much of a hurry, Mr. Stebbins. Now, I’m going to ask you as a favor to find out from District Attorney Lane whether or not he wants me. It may be he doesn’t. Do you know?”

“Want ye? Glory and snakes! Sartin, he wants ye!”

“If you don’t mind, sheriff,” I suggested, “I’ll telegraph him. Do you object?”

“Sartin no--no objecshuns!” He seemed to relish his liquor.

“I like your ways, Mr. Stebbins,” I said with a smile, and added, “When we get through telegraphing District Attorney Lane, we’ll have something to eat, and more to drink, too, if you feel like it.”

Then I wrote the following to F. F. Lane: “Sheriff Stebbins claims to have me under arrest here--do you want me?--wire at my expense.”

While Stebbins looked on I signed my name to these words, and soon they were being clicked to their destination. Stebbins’s little eyes were wide open with astonishment and confusion. Presently he asked: “Is this here biznuss a durned bluff, George?”

“We’ll let the district attorney be the judge of that, sheriff,” was my bland reply. “Come--let’s go to the dining-room.”

In the meantime I had sent a messenger boy round town to look up Judge Cushion, my senior counsel in the New Hampshire trial. I wanted him near in case of an emergency. He arrived about the time we finished our meal. He sat with us, and I told him of the fate of the indictments. It was news to him, and I received his warm congratulations with satisfaction. Then I told him of the arrest and of the message I’d sent to District Attorney Lane. He smiled significantly. While telling the judge all this, I took no little delight in watching the various changes which appeared on the sheriff’s face. After waiting an hour, I wrote another message, similar to the first, and sent it to Lane. Another hour passed and still no reply from either. In the meanwhile Sheriff Stebbins was getting more and more nonplussed and uneasy.

I wired to the telegraph operator at Keene to know if my messages had been delivered to District Attorney Lane. I showed Stebbins the answer:--

“Both messages were delivered, personally, to F. F. Lane.”

Stebbins was absolutely worried. He had serious doubts that he’d made a smart move in arresting me. Finally, he opened up, with much confusion of speech, a discussion with Judge Cushion.

“What ’u’d ye advise me tew dew, jedge?” he asked anxiously. I secretly enjoyed his discomfiture.

“Well,” said Cushion, “you can hold Mr. White for twenty-four hours, but let me tell you, if District Attorney Lane doesn’t want him, you’ll be in a pretty pickle. It will be a clean case of lawsuit, and you’ll be the defendant without a leg to hobble on. In view of Mr. White’s statement, I can’t see any other outcome. It seems that you’ve arrested him without proper authority.”

“B’ gummany Christmus!” ejaculated the sheriff, wiping his perspiring face with a much-soiled handkerchief. “I hev cut a mus’ melon, an’ no mistake! What’ll I dew, jedge, anyhow? Ef ye wuz in my place, what ’u’d ye dew?”

“I prefer not to advise you, sheriff, but if, as you say, I had gotten myself in your predicament, I’d confess I’d made a big mistake an’ tell the prisoner to go his way in peace, as quick as he wanted to.”

Sheriff Stebbins jumped at this solution of his troubles, like a startled rabbit to cover. I was set free, but I didn’t leave until I had made the sheriff very contrite and fully understand that he had seriously interfered with my lawful rights. Bidding farewell to Judge Cushion, I was about to go, when Stebbins said I’d not be able to get out of Charlestown that night, the last train having gone.

“But I’ll drive ye to Bellows Falls,” he volunteered anxiously, “an’ thet’ll help ye ’long a lot.”

I was truly glad to accept the offer. After a tedious journey, I was at last on board a train _en route_ to the metropolis.

During these months I had tried in every way imaginable to get back the property so unlawfully taken from me, but being handicapped by lapse of time and by the prejudices of influential people, I signally failed. It did me no good to make clear to the authorities that my property had been taken from me by means palpably unlawful,--to show that the suit in tort brought in Middlesex County, Massachusetts, by Herbert Bellows, was never tried; for when I sued Sheriff White, who attached my property, he had nothing to satisfy the judgment. All I accomplished was to make plain the illegality of Herbert Bellows’s procedure, and show belated, though ample, proof of the diabolical conspiracy against me.

Two years after my experience with Sheriff Stebbins I accidentally met “Spress” Babbitt on board a New London steamboat on the way to New York. We met in the saloon cabin. He turned pale and was visibly agitated as I strode up to him.

“Here, Babbitt,” I said, trying to repress my anger, “that was a nice show you made of me at Charlestown.”

He sputtered considerably, mumbled more, and altogether I couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. I went on, “I’ve a great mind to throw you over the rail and make you swim ashore,” and I lunged forward as though to grasp him. He shrank back and trembled violently.

“Don’t be alarmed,” I said; “you’re not worth it.”

He found his voice then and whimpered that he didn’t want to cause my arrest, but that others had urged him to do it. The mean little imp wasn’t man enough to admit his blame, but must shift it, if possible, to other and innocent shoulders.

“Stuff,” I growled; “you see the error you committed--there was nothing against me. Good night, Babbitt, and I hope for your sake we don’t meet again on this boat.”

He disappeared into his state-room and didn’t come out until after we touched the New York shore the following morning.