Ralph Barbour - Left Half Harmon

At a few minutes past three o’clock on a particularly warm afternoon in late September of last year three boys removed themselves and their luggage from the top of a Fifth Avenue stage in New York City and set forth eastward along Forty-second Street. Although decidedly dissimilar in looks and slightly dissimilar in build, they showed, nevertheless, a certain uniformity of carriage and action and, to a lesser degree, of attire. There was nothing strange in that, however, since, for the last two years, at least, they had spent nine months of the twelve in the same place, at the same pursuits and under the same discipline. The likeness of attire was less in material and color than in a certain tasteful avoidance of the extremes. Joe Myers and Martin Proctor wore blue serge and Bob Newhall a brownish-gray tweed, and in no case was the coat snugged in to the figure or adorned with a belt in conformity to the dictums of the Rochester school of sartorial art. Joe and Bob wore gray-and-gold ribbons about their straw hats, Martin a plain black. Each of the three carried a brown leather suitcase, and, had you looked closely, you would have discovered on each bag, amongst numerous other labels, a gray triangle bearing two A’s in gold snuggled together in a pyramid-shaped monogram.

At Grand Central Station they crossed the street, showing a superb indifference to the traffic. The driver of a pumpkin-hued taxi-cab, whose countenance and manner of driving suggested that he had cut many notches in his steering-wheel, yielded to a momentary weakness and jammed on his emergency brake, thereby allowing the three boys to step calmly and unhurriedly from his path. They seemed not to have observed their danger, and yet, having gained the sidewalk unharmed, one of them turned and rewarded the taxi man with a grave wink which threw the latter into a state of apoplectic anger.

“Guess,” observed Bob with a chuckle, “we spoiled his entire day!”

“Don’t worry,” responded Martin. “He’ll kill enough to make up for losing us!”

Inside the station, they turned their steps toward the right and set their bags down near one of the ticket windows. “You get them, Joe,” said Bob. “Here’s mine.” He proffered a five-dollar bill, but Joe waved it aside.

“I’ll pay for them and you can settle on the train. I’ll get all mixed up if you give me the money now.” He took a rather fat wallet from an inner pocket of his coat and stepped into the line leading to the nearest wicket. The others moved their own suitcases and Joe’s out of the way of the passers and settled themselves to wait. Martin compared the watch on his wrist with the station clock and yawned.

“Nearly twelve minutes yet,” he observed.

Bob nodded. “What about parlor-car seats?” he asked.

“There aren’t any on this train.”

“Why not?”

Martin concealed another yawn with the back of a sunburned hand. “No parlor-car, dearie. You’ll have to wait until five-ten for that, and it isn’t worth it. I wouldn’t wait in this Turkish bath another hour if they promised me a special train! Got anything to read in your bag?”

Bob was about to answer in the affirmative when a sudden shout from the ticket window interrupted and both boys looked across in time to see Joe clutch unsuccessfully at the arm of a man who, swinging away from the window, now started to run fast toward the nearest exit. Perhaps Bob or Martin, had he sensed instantly what was happening, might have intercepted the man, but he had a good start before either of them realized that the black object he slipped into a pocket as he ran was Joe’s wallet, and so it was Joe himself who led the evidently futile chase, Joe shouting “ Stop him! Stop him! ” most lustily. Abandoning suitcases, Bob and Martin dashed after.

The thief showed skill born of experience as he dodged his way toward the door, avoiding a stout lady with two small children in tow one instant and side-stepping a bundle-laden messenger boy the next and scarcely lessening his speed. Joe had poorer luck, however, for, although he got safely past the stout lady by a miracle of dexterity, he came a cropper a stride beyond and went down in a shower of parcels!

By now the waiting-room was in wild confusion. Cries of “Thief! Thief!” filled the air; those about the entrance were trying hard to get out of the way and those at a distance were striving madly to reach the scene. Station policemen hurriedly joined the pursuit, but their quarry was already on the threshold of freedom when a new actor made his appearance in the drama. Just as the thief swung toward the doors something shot through space, there was a crashing thud, a surprised grunt and the chase was over!

A boy of seventeen unwrapped his arms from the legs of the motionless form on the floor, arose to his feet, dusted his clothes and looked somewhat embarrassedly into the faces of the throng that had already surrounded him. A gray-coated officer pushed his way into the center of the circle, gave a quick, inquiring glance at the boy and leaned over the figure on the floor.

“He’s all right. Hit his head when he went down. Give a hand with him, Conlon, and we’ll get him to one side. You come along, sir, till I get the rights of it.” A brother policeman aiding, the thief, now showing signs of consciousness, was lifted to one side of the entrance. By that time Joe and his companions had worked their way to the front and Joe quickly told his story.

“Grabbed your pocketbook, did he?” asked the first policeman. “Let’s see has he got it. Sure, he has! Is this it? Hold on now, not so fast! What’s your name?”

Martin whispered swiftly in Joe’s ear, “Myers Joseph,” answered Joe after a brief hesitation.

“And where do you live?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Philadelphia, eh? What about making a charge against this feller?”

“I don’t see how I can,” answered Joe. “My train leaves in five minutes.”

“Never mind the charge,” broke in a new voice. “I know this duck and I’ll look after him. On your feet, Clancey!”

A clean-shaven, lean-jawed man had pushed his way through the crowd, and now he gripped the thief’s coat lapels and fairly lifted him to his feet.

“Detective,” whispered a man behind Martin.

“This guy’s wanted,” continued the newcomer. “Stand up, you’re all right, ‘Spike.’ Put up your hands.” The captive, finding that playing possum would not do, obeyed meekly and the detective ran quick and practised fingers over him. Then a pair of handcuffs were slipped onto the man’s wrists and he was being whisked through the throng.

“Here’s your pocketbook, young man,” said the policeman importantly. “You’d not have it saving this feller here.” He indicated the boy whose football tactics had ended the chase and who, hemmed in by the crowd, was now striving to get away. “Better see if the contents is correct.”

Joe had tried to express gratitude to the other boy, examine his pocketbook and listen to the low-voiced urging of Martin all at the same time, with the result that he was decidedly incoherent and confused. Martin was tugging at his arm and telling him that they had but five minutes to get the train. The policeman came to his rescue.

“Move on now! Move on!” he commanded sternly, pushing right and left. “Stop blocking up this passage!”

The throng dissolved almost as quickly as it had formed. Somehow, Joe and Martin, hurrying back to where Bob had returned to guard the suitcases, found themselves close to the boy who had made the capture. He had rescued his luggage, a large kit-bag, from a bystander and, too, was seeking the ticket window.