Harper's Round Table, November 19, 1895

HUNTING AN ANARCHIST.

A THANKSGIVING STORY FOUNDED ON FACT.

BY ALBERT LEE.

When Fred Hallowell graduated from school in the spring of 1893, and passed his final examinations for college, there was every promise that he would have an enjoyable summer vacation followed by four years of pleasant college life. But owing to the panic of 1893 Mr. Hallowell failed in business, and Fred found that instead of going to college he must look about for some sort of position, in order that he might not be an additional drain on the very greatly reduced resources of his parents.

It is not a part of this story to tell of Fred's discouraging endeavors to secure a position in New York. Business men were discharging employés in those days, not engaging new ones. Finally, he managed, through an old acquaintance, to secure a position as reporter on the staff of the Gazette. He started into his new life with an energy that soon attracted the attention of his employers, and it was not long before the city editor began to feel that the new reporter was a reliable man.

The week before Thanksgiving Fred made a few extra dollars by writing a short article for one of the illustrated weeklies, and as Thursday was his regular day "off" he decided that he would use this money to take a little trip up the Hudson to his home, and spend Thanksgiving day with his family. He had just mailed his letter, announcing his intention to visit home, when the city editor called him to his desk and handed him a clipping from one of the morning papers, which stated that a certain Frenchman, suspected of being prominent in anarchistic circles, had visited a French school-ship, then anchored in the North River, and that the officers had recognized him as a dangerous criminal, a fugitive from French justice.

"This may be one of the Star's fakes," said the city editor, "but you go out on the story, and keep at it until you get all the facts. It may take you several days. If you find it's true, we'll make a spread of it, and have the fellow arrested."

Fred was pleased at getting such an important assignment, and looked forward hopefully to some exciting work, although he feared there would be nothing in the story in the end. He went at once on board of the French school-ship, where he found a young lieutenant, who had been officer of the deck a few days before, and who had seen a man whom he thought he recognized as an anarchist he had seen on trial in Paris several years before. He had mentioned this fact to a Star reporter who came aboard for news that evening, simply because he had nothing else to tell him, but he doubted that the man he had seen could be the Paris anarchist, although the latter had escaped from France, and was supposed to have fled to America. His name was Etienne Renard, and the officer gave Fred a description of him. As the reporter left the ship he instinctively asked if there was any news, and the lieutenant told him they expected to sail in a few days for Haiti, and that one seaman had deserted since their arrival in New York harbor. Fred made a paragraph of this information, and sent it down to the Gazette office by messenger.

As he stood on the dock a few minutes later, looking up and down the river, as if he thought some inspiration might come to him from the puffing tugs in midstream, he wondered what he should do next, for he was now left without a clew. He knew the anarchists of New York had several gathering-places over on the east side of the city, but he felt sure that even if Renard frequented any of these, it would be under an assumed name, and he further knew there was no place where a reporter was less welcome than at a resort of anarchists. Nevertheless, he determined to see what he could learn in that quarter, and soon was on his way to a restaurant called "Zum Groben Michel," a place that has acquired more or less notoriety, because of the riotous meetings that have been held by men of anarchistic and nihilistic tendencies within its doors.

He found a number of ugly-looking characters sitting in the place, but none answered to the description of Renard. He asked a few of the neighbors if a Frenchman was ever seen thereabouts, but he received scant courtesy in reply, and no information; and so he went home to think over some new plan of action. The next day he visited the French quarter in the region of Bleecker Street and South Fifth Avenue, and questioned the restaurant-keepers of the neighborhood, but none of them could remember having seen any man answering to Fred's description of Renard. Every day he visited the east-side restaurant, but all his work availed him nothing. He was about to give up the search as futile a couple of days later; but on his way down town to the office to tell the city editor of his failure, he stopped off at Bleecker Street, and went into one of the cheap cafés to make final inquiries from a fat little French proprietor whom he had found most amiable on a previous visit.

As they talked, a customer with a nautical gait, and somewhat the worse for drink, rolled in and sat down. The communicative host served him, and then whispered to Fred that he thought the man was a deserter from the French ship, who had been keeping pretty quiet till his vessel left port, and was now taking advantage of his stolen freedom.

The man was a tough-looking customer, unmistakably a seaman, in spite of his ill-fitting shore clothes; and as Fred sat watching him from across the room an idea sprang up and gradually developed in his mind. If this man was the deserter whom the officer had told him of, he might possibly have run away as a result of Renard's visit to the ship, if Renard was the stranger who had gone aboard. Therefore he might know Renard; he might even know where Renard lived--perhaps Renard was giving him shelter! Fred grew very much excited as these thoughts flashed through his mind, and determined to follow the man and see where he went. The latter, however, seemed to be in no haste to give the young detective a chance to pursue his investigations. He sat in the café until nearly six o'clock. Then he paid his reckoning and tacked up the street to the elevated railroad station. Fred boarded the same train, and followed his man down to South Ferry, where they both went aboard a Staten Island boat, and on reaching St. George took a train and rode for a short distance toward South Beach.

It was easy for Fred to follow the sailor when they left the train, for darkness had come on an hour ago. The Frenchman led the way through the village, and tramped for half a mile or more along a lonely road that led inland, over a hill and across country, until they came to a two-story cottage with a picket fence around it. The sailor staggered through the gate and up the steps, and opened the door and went in, slamming it behind him, and Fred was left outside in the darkness alone. He sat down by the way-side to think over the situation, watching the house as he did so; but no sound came to his ears, and as the shades were drawn at the windows of the one room in which a light shone, he saw nothing. When he had come to the conclusion that there was little to be gained by sitting out in the dampness staring at a blank wall, he trudged back to the village, to make inquiries of the station agent and the town watchman.

"There's somethin' queer about them folks, I guess," the watchman said. "There was another man askin' me about 'em--'bout a week ago."

Fred feared this other inquirer might have been a Star reporter on the same errand, and so he laid awake almost all night forming plans for the conduct of his future investigations. It was now the day before Thanksgiving, and Fred reluctantly made up his mind he would have to forego the pleasure of a trip up the Hudson. He wrote to his mother that she should not expect him, as an important assignment detained him in town. Then he started off for Staten Island, stopping on the way to the ferry to hire a bicycle for the day. He followed the same route he had taken the night before, and shortly after noon he was coasting down the dusty hill-side in plain view of the two-story cottage. He saw a woman moving about in the yard, and this pleased him greatly, for he felt she would materially assist him in his plans. He apparently paid no attention to her, however, but bent over the handle-bars as if he were scorching along at full speed; and when he came to within a hundred feet of the house he deliberately ran into a stone by the way-side and took a header into the soft road. For a moment he lay perfectly still, with one eye fastened on the woman (for his fall was purely theatrical), and when he saw that she had witnessed the "accident" he put his hand to his head and groaned. Then, with much labor and difficulty, he picked himself up and crawled toward the gate and asked if he might go into the house, and requested the woman to get him a glass of water. She did not act very hospitably about Fred's entering the house, but he begged so persistently that she reluctantly consented at last. She left him on a chair in the front room and went back for the water, and Fred was wondering how he was going to prolong his stay after her return, when he heard loud and violent talking in a neighboring room, apparently the kitchen. Two men were soundly berating the woman for having admitted a stranger to the house. Finally one of the men snarled that he would take the water and see that the bicyclist got out much more rapidly than he had come in. Heavy footsteps sounded along the hall, and a man entered the open door. Fred glanced up with an expression of studied misery, which immediately changed into one of amazement when he recognized the man in front of him as one of the patrons of "Zum Groben Michel." The man evidently recognized Fred, too, for he said fiercely,

"What are you doing here?" He spoke with a German accent.

"I fell off my bicycle," began Fred.

"Your bicycle!" retorted the other. "Bah! I have seen you before. At 'Zum Groben Michel,' eh? You have been there?"

Fred admitted that he had.

"Well, what you do there?" continued the man, getting angrier as he spoke. "What you do there? You have no business there! You are a reporter!"

Fred made no reply. He devoutly wished he was still riding along the dusty road far away from that house.

"You are a reporter!" shouted the man again and again, until his cries brought another into the room. Fred was satisfied at first sight of him that he had found Renard; but he realized at the same time that he had caught a Tartar. Renard said something in French to the first man, who refused in his rage to listen, but, shaking his fist at Fred, he roared again,

"You are a reporter!"

"Yes, I am," said the lad, rising to his feet. "And what about it?"

This boldness disconcerted the two men for a moment; and noticing this Fred ill advisedly determined to be even bolder. He became rash; for when the man asked, "What do you want here, then?" he said,

"I want to talk with that gentleman, there, Mr. Renard."