The Ocean Wireless Boys on War Swept Seas

Bill tip-toed across the room, and raised one of the windows. To his satisfaction he at once noticed the drain pipe at arm’s length. A moment later he had slid to the floor below.

To his surprise he saw the window of that mysterious room wide open. He could see only part of it. There seemed many men listlessly sitting about, though the majority kept unseeing eyes on a blackboard.

“A blind tiger!” breathed Bill, amazed.

Bill meant that it was a fake racing broker’s place. In years gone by there were many such dens of evil in New York, where congregated the broken-hearted, the reckless, the unscrupulous, all of whom tempted fate on this horse or that. As a rule the proprietor controlled the destinies of his victims, for he could “fake” any information he desired as to what horse won or lost. Happily these dens are now more scarce than hen’s teeth. It was these dens, the graves of dupes, that were called blind tigers.

“Does Tom play the ponies?” wondered Bill.

He listened intently.

Somewhere a ticker droned, and a husky voice announced:

“Gas a half – five eighths; Steel six – nine hundred at a quarter – a thousand – five-hundred – a quarter – an eighth – Erie – an eighth – Steam – an eighth – ”

“What does this mean?” questioned Bill. “It sounds like stock quotations. Can it be – ?”

He decided to risk glancing into the room.

At some risk of losing his hold he balanced himself in order to accomplish his wish.

He saw a room, unclean and unwholesome. The men seemed to be of the discarded of the street, the diseased and maimed of the financial district; here and there was a younger, smarter type, the kind that makes the gangster, the pickpocket and worse. He also saw Tom sitting quietly yet alert. At his elbow was a young man, somewhat older than Tom. On the wall facing the window was a great blackboard, and as the ticker spelled out its information, and the slovenly dressed clerk gave it voice, a second clerk chalked away without cessation.

Beyond this clerk’s announcements everything was quiet. Bill felt himself slipping, so he silently swung back to his former position. The light of understanding was in his eyes.

“By Jove, it’s a bucket shop!”

Now a bucket shop is where people buy and sell stock on less margin or in smaller quantity than is accepted on the curb on Broad Street or on the Stock Exchange. These establishments, too, are fast disappearing, though as is always possible in New York, an exception – as in all directions of semi-organized crime – manages to keep from the sharp talons of the law for a longer period of time.

The bucket shops were where messenger boys and clerks gamboled with Dame Fortune. Sooner or later they lost – lost not only every cent to their names, but much of their self-respect and honesty. It was also the place for the men who had gone down to defeat in the great battle fought bitterly every minute of the day in the great financial arena. These men were unfit for everything else, so they turned to the bucket shops as a drowning man grasps at a straw. But we have digressed enough – though this was really necessary – and let us continue with the narrative.

Bill did not know what to make of it all.

Surely Tom Jukes had little need to play for stakes. His father was sufficiently wealthy and knew the great money game, and its pitfalls, not to have acquainted his son with them. The more Bill thought, the more puzzled he became.

Suddenly he heard Tom shout:

“You robber, you thief!”

“Git out,” bawled the voice, evidently that of the proprietor, “or I’ll have you put out!”

“You do, and I’ll have you in the hands of the police within twenty-four hours!”

“You will, will you?” came the snarling challenge, followed by a general commotion.

“Here’s where I take a hand!” decided Bill, and leaped into the room, now in fearful confusion.

“Stop!” cried Bill, drawing his revolver, which he had a special permit to carry at any time he wished, “or I’ll fire!”

His command was obeyed.

“Stand where you are!” Bill demanded, noting a suspicious movement on the part of several to escape.

“Bill, good old Bill!” exclaimed Tom, overjoyed.

“Yes, it’s Bill,” was the reply. “Call up Headquarters while I hold them in line.”

“That’s your tip, Fred,” said Tom, turning to the young man Bill had noticed before. “On the run now!”

The young man called Fred seemed to need no further invitation.

Tom now joined Bill. From one of the drawers of the desk at which the proprietor had been seated, Tom brought to light an ugly-looking Colt.

“Let’s move ’em toward the rear!” suggested Tom. “Some of ’em are showing signs of restlessness.”

“All right!” acquiesced Bill.

So, at the point of the revolvers, everyone in the room was lined up against the rear wall. The older men, who had seen better days, appeared indifferent to it all. To them life meant very little. Spirit, youth, ambition, success had long passed them by. They still clung to the vain hope of winning something out of sheer habit. Stock gambling, like opium, oftentimes urges on its victim until the sands of life slowly ebb away. The younger no-accounts scowled darkly. But what could they do? Those two lads were too business-like to attempt anything rash.

“Say,” growled the proprietor, addressing Tom, “can’t we call this quits?”

“Nothing doing!” was the curt reply, both boys at once becoming more alert that ever.

“Aw, take a joke,” pleaded the man. “I’ll square it with you. Honest I will.”

Both boys remained silent.

“I’ll tell you what,” continued the owner, “just to square myself, I’ll throw in one hundred dollars.”

Silence.

“Five hundred!”

“You’re going out of business,” announced Tom. “Save your breath!”

“One thousand dollars!”

“One more word,” warned Bill, “and I won’t be responsible for my action. Keep still.”

Defeated, the man depicted his silent disdain.

A moment later Fred and the police arrived. The police captain in charge wanted the boys to go along to press the charge, but Tom, upon quickly satisfying the officer of their intentions of doing so the next day – especially establishing that Tom was the son of Jacob Jukes, the multimillionaire – were at liberty to proceed as they pleased.

“Explanations are now in order.”

“Correct,” replied Tom. “Let me first introduce Fred Strong, an old-time friend of mine. Bill Raynor, one of the finest boys in the world!”

The introduction was acknowledged with appropriate remarks. Tom then unfolded a most interesting story. Fred was a Wall Street clerk – and, like many others, dabbled in stocks. He kept on losing. So, desperate, he attempted to court luck at the bucket shop a friend of his had told him of. For a time he won. His hopes rose. Then the inevitable reverses began. The proprietor meanwhile had studied his victim. Fred, without realizing it, became one of his dupes. He loaned money from every one. He began to tamper with his books. Disgrace stared him in the face when he met Tom. A few hours had straightened out all tangles. Tom, however, insisted on bringing the bucket shop keeper to book.

“Well, that’s all to it!” interspersed Tom.

“Hold on,” expostulated Bill, “why did you sneak along the street as if wishing to be unrecognized?”

“Easy,” replied Tom. “Saw dad, across the street, so had to – as you say —sneak.”

“Phew!” whistled Bill, astonished. “I never saw him. One other point, how did you know the revolver was in that desk?”

“It seems,” answered Tom, “that the bucket shop proprietor made it a practice to show new customers that weapon. I suppose it was an effective reminder that all disagreements might be settled rather abruptly.”

“Well,” chimed in Fred, “let us forget about it. I’ll never play the market again. But, boys, I want you to come with me. I have to tell this story to the sweetest girl in town. You’ve got to meet her!”

“If you insist, lead on,” replied Tom. “But suppose you tell her the truth of the matter, and then, – well – I guess Bill and I will be honored, I’m sure!”

Bill laughed outright.

“I never suspected,” he said, “you had so much of the so-called ‘society sass’.”

Tom chuckled with glee. He was highly satisfied with the first day’s adventure in America. In excellent spirits, the trio rode uptown. While en route Bill briefly told, in turn, of catching sight of Tom, and the consequences thereof.

An hour later Fred brought them to a neatly nestled house. There was a hand-ball court on the property, and Fred saw to it that they were made to feel at home. Then he entered the house.

“Elsie,” said Fred, when first greetings were over and they were comfortably settled, “I’ve something to tell you.”

“What is it, Fred?”

“I – I couldn’t buy you the engagement ring – be – because I lost the money.”

“That is too bad! But don’t mind it, dear. I can wait.”

“It’s nice of you to say it, but I lost the money on stocks.”

“Tell me about it,” she requested calmly, though there was a break in her voice.

So Fred related the facts already familiar to us. Nor did he spare himself in the recital. At its conclusion, there was a moment’s silence. Then —

“Fred,” said the girl softly, “I’m glad you told me of this. Please, Fred, don’t gamble again – whether it be on cards or stocks – and if you were younger – I’d add buttons and marbles.”

“I’ve already promised not to do so – but Elsie, I have something else to tell you. I have a new position at a higher salary – thirty dollars a week.”

“That’s great!”

“It’ll be more – if I make good.”

“Fred, I’m so glad.”

A pause.

“The cost of living is very high now,” asked Fred – “isn’t it?”

“I should say so! Diamonds will soon be cheaper than onions or potatoes or cut sugar.”

“Elsie!”

“Yes?”

“Would you like – could you – I mean – er – do you think two persons could live on thirty dollars a week?”

“Certainly!”

“How about us?”

“Oh, George!”

“Elsie!”

A blissful interval. Then —

“Elsie – I’ve completely forgotten! Those two boys I told you of are playing handball. They insisted that I confess my crimes before you met them!”

A moment later Fred was introducing Tom and Bill to Elsie. The young lady’s form of greeting was most unexpected and unconventional. Before either of the boys could surmise her intention, she had kissed them!

Of course general laughter and banter followed. Of this let us say no more.

The reader, however, may rest assured that the boys whose adventures we have followed through six volumes were always true to American ideals and aspirations. They participated in many strange and thrilling adventures. We may write of these in the near future, but for the time being, with every good wish for the bright future that appears assured to them, we will bid farewell to the Ocean Wireless Boys.

THE END