Part 20 (1/2)

Once, on returning to Baltimore, after a longer absence than usual, his friends greeted him warmly.

”By Jove, Webster, we had begun to think you were in trouble,” one of them exclaimed.

”No danger of that,” was the laughing response. ”I have no intention of being trapped before I fulfill my mission. I have some valuable work to do for the Southern Confederacy before the Yankees can get the upper hand of me.”

They were in a saloon--a favorite rendezvous of these men--and Webster was in the midst of his crowd. He was telling them about some imaginary ”points” which he had picked up in Was.h.i.+ngton, and a.s.suring them he would in some manner transmit the information he had received to the rebel commanders before he was a week older. While thus entertaining his hearers, his attention was attracted by a man who entered the saloon with a swaggering gait, his hands in his pockets, and his hat tipped over one side of his head. He knew this man as a ruffian and bully of the worst stripe, Bill Zigler, and one of the ringleaders of the mob that had attacked the Union troops on the 19th of April; consequently, he entertained a wholesome contempt for the fellow, and avoided him as much as possible.

He was much surprised when the new-comer stopped in the middle of the room, and exclaimed, gruffly:

”h.e.l.lo, Webster! You're _here_, are you? By G--d, I've been looking for you!”

Webster turned toward him a look of surprised inquiry.

”Did you speak to me, sir?” he asked, quietly.

”Yes, I spoke to you, sir!” mimicked Bill Zigler, in a bullying voice.

”I say I've been lookin' for you, and when I've spoke my piece I reckon this town will be too hot to hold you many hours longer.”

”I don't understand you,” protested Webster.

”Ha! ha! ha!” laughed the ruffian, a glitter of triumph and hatred in his eyes. ”You've been playin' it fine on the boys here for the last three weeks, but d--n you, I'll spoil your little game!”

”What do you mean?” demanded Webster, his anger beginning to rise. ”You speak in riddles.”

”I'll tell you what I mean!” bl.u.s.tered the bully. ”Gentlemen,” turning toward the crowd, and pointing his finger toward the detective; ”that man is leagued with the Yankees, and comes among you as a spy.”

There was a general start of astonishment, and Webster himself was dumfounded.

”Oh, nonsense, Zigler,” spoke up one of the men, after a death-like silence of several moments. ”You must be drunk to make such an a.s.sertion as that. There is not a better Southern man in Baltimore than Mr.

Webster.”

”I am as sober as the soberest man here,” declared Zigler; ”and I reckon I know what I am talking about. I saw that fellow in Was.h.i.+ngton yesterday.”

”I can well believe that you saw me in Was.h.i.+ngton yesterday,” said Webster, quietly, ”for I certainly was there. I have just been telling these gentlemen what I saw and heard while there.”

”Maybe you have, but I'll bet ten dollars you didn't tell 'em that you had a conversation with the _chief of the detective force_ while you were there!”

Webster, it must be admitted, was wholly unprepared for this, but he realized in an instant that the bully's insinuation must be denied and overcome. With an a.s.sumption of uncontrollable rage he cried out ”You are a liar and a scoundrel!”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”_The man reeled half way across the room, and fell prostrate between two tables._” P. 277.]

”I am, eh?” hissed Zigler through his clenched teeth, and before any one could make a movement to restrain him he sprang furiously toward Webster.

Quick as was this movement, however, Webster was prepared for him. Like a flash of lightning his fist flew straight out from the shoulder, striking the ruffian between the eyes, with a force that would have felled an ox. The man reeled half-way across the room, and fell prostrate between two tables.

With a roar like that of a baffled beast, Zigler gathered himself up and rushed at Webster, flouris.h.i.+ng above his head a murderous-looking knife.

But, as if by magic, a revolver appeared in the detective's hand, the muzzle of which covered his adversary's heart.

”Stop!” cried Webster, in a tone of stern command. ”Hold your distance, you miserable cur, or your blood will be upon your own head!”