The Red Book Magazine/Volume 7/Number 3/The Reform of Hunch Bugan

Mr. William Bilks, alias “Slinky Bill,” swarthy of countenance and repellent of face, paused at the corner and looked back after the slouching figure of a man in a red sweater. He knew it was “Hunch” Bugan, and yet it puzzled him that “Hunch” should be sober. He even forgot for the moment that he ought to be angry with his former pal, when he remembered a scene up in Monroe County, where “Hunch” turned state's evidence, and only escaped Auburn prison by sending his mates there for long terms. Mr. Bilks had always treasured the remembrance in his mind and had sworn that once free, and wise enough to keep away from the banks that are under the protection of the American Bankers' Protective Association and policed by the Pinkertons, he would find time to locate “Hunch” and even up the score. But the spectacle of “Hunch” sober and evidently intent on business eliminated all thoughts of vengeance for the moment, and it was only as the sweater threatened to be lost in turning a corner that Mr. Bilks remembered and quickly dogged the soft-footed renegade until the chase ended in a tall tenement house.

“Livin' up here, eh?” growled Mr. Bilks, as he passed the building and noted the number. “It's a long time since I done that dip, but 'Hunch,' I has a long mem'ry, t'ank heavens! An' we's goin' ter settle dat little account afore youse leave old New York. Now wot has that bloke under his hat? Sober? An' in de mornin'? He must have a fat lay, an' I reckon he'll stand fer a pipe.”

A casual mingling in Steinheimer's saloon on the corner brought forth the information that “Hunch” had been hiding up in that vicinity for several days and incidentally eschewing the strong waters. This settled Slinky Bill's determination, and as he had no immediate job in sight he engaged a room in a nearby lodging house and allowed his beard to grow until he looked like a cross between an anarchist and a hedge fence. In this way he came to learn of all the exits and entrances of his quondam pal, and from several trips in his wake, to a certain section of the Long Island shore, he decided some game was on, whereby a summer home was scheduled to wake up and find the larger portion of its furnishings missing. One day “Hunch” drove out among the back alleys and kitchen approaches on a meat cart, after toasting the driver into an acute state of insensibility, and it needed no second sight to tell Mr. Bilks that the land was being spied out in the old approved style.

Once “Hunch's” hunting grounds had been located Slinky Bill was content to remain unseen but where he could observe his enemy's comings and goings, knowing instinctively the hour of the killing had not yet arrived. The long, spring-night vigils reminded Slinky of his youth and his trust in “Hunch,” of the time when he thought it the correct thing to hunt in pairs and have abiding trust in his mate. The belief of those days had been destroyed by the one act of the erring one up in Monroe County, and now Slinky followed the moonlit trails alone, with no one to call on him for a share of the loot, with none to play him double. If the memories saddened the old cracksman it in no way weakened his purpose to have an accounting with his false comrade. If anything, it intensified his desire, albeit, he had grace to regret that the honorable calling in which he was numbered a bright light should be disrupted by private hate. He appreciated that “Hunch” was playing an eminently legitimate game in warring upon organized society, yet those four years in Auburn prison could not be cried down for the good of the order.

So he watched, and one night he knew “Hunch” was to make his strike. No sooner had the traitor left his hiding place and made for Long Island than Slinky Bill was at his heels, winning his sobriquet anew by the silent manner in which he kept pace and dogged his quarry.

First “Hunch” entered a summer house, occupied by a few domestics, and after rambling over the structure at his leisure, reappeared, carrying something in a small canvas bag that occasionally gave forth a mellow clink. Then another house was entered and the same fruitful exit was observed by the lone watcher.

“Fer de love of—Say, beau, but youse certainly makin' a real clean up dis time,” muttered Slinky Bill under his breath, forced to admire the workmanlike way in which “Hunch” was covering the circuit.

At last even “Hunch” grew weary of well doing and paused undecided whether to take in the big house with the gable roof, or to go home. After thinking it over under a shade tree for some minutes he evidently compromised with himself by stealing away to a less pretentious section of the town and halting back of a neat frame house.

“Why, say,” gasped Slinky, “dis is jest cigaret an' beer money. He can't be down so low ter tap dat humble joint.”

But “Hunch” evidently possessed the broad philosophy that looks on all netted fish as good for something, for after a quick survey of the moonlit premises he sneaked to the kitchen window and was soon inside the house. Mr. Bilks felt a wave of righteous indignation sweep over him as he swung his gum shoes over the sill and carefully kept a few paces behind the commercialized burglar. There was more risk in a small home like this, he well knew, than in one of those big barn-like places he had already entered; but as far as any commotion was concerned the two crooks might have been moon-beams, or falling leaves, so easily did they move from room to room. Then “Hunch” deftly weighed the silverware in the dining room and would have grunted in disgust if he had been an amateur, for the stuff was all plated. He had not need to turn on his lantern to ascertain this. But as he was preparing to softly retreat his small eyes caught a glimpse of a toy bank, the property of some youngster, and rather than leave entirely without compensation he gingerly picked it up and knocking out the bottom turned a handful of pennies and silver into his great coat pocket.

“Fer de love of—Why, say, dat four flush is breakin' de kiddy's bank,” moaned Slinky Bill, overcome to find even an enemy in his profession playing so low and onery a game.

Then as the hunted one turned to drift as silently as a shadow to the window Mr. Bilks anticipated him, and as the robber of tots reached the ground he was met with a stunning blow from a chunk of lead, fastened to a strip of leather.

“If youse had been true blue ter de callin' youse would have got off wid jest a touch fer de stuff. But I can't stand ter see a man sneak t'ings on a baby,” commented Mr. Bilks, standing over the prostrate form and listening to learn if any alarm had been given.

All was as still within as the blackness of the garden wall and after removing the bulky canvas bags from his old betrayer's pockets Mr. Bilks again entered the kitchen window and made for the dining room. There producing his lantern, he carefully counted the pennies and nickels, abstracted so short a time ago from the little bank, and silently replaced them piece by piece.

“Jest a doller an' forty-tree cents,” he growled. “An' ter t'ink dat one of us would sink his manhood, as de mission guy says, fer dat!”

Then he fumbled in his pockets and at last produced three shining silver dollars. “Mebbe de warden frisked it from some poor devil afore dealin' it out ter me, but so far as I'se concerned it's dead honest an' I reckon de bank needs it more 'n I does.” And the broad discs went to join their humble brethren.

With this charitable errand done Mr. Bilks noiselessly retraced his soft steps and emerged in the moonlight just as “Hunch” began to show signs of returning to reason. “Come along,” he growled, catching the prostrate form by the collar and dragging him out to the road. “Come along, youse baby's burglar. It goes again de grain ter leave youse where de cops can pinch youse. But when youse wakes up an' misses dat bit of stuff from de big bug's house I hopes youse will swear off dis Chris'mas tree work an' reform. Gawd knows when a big live man sinks ter dis dat room fer a reform is come.”

And as the moon watched Mr. Bilks wend his care-free way homeward toward the big city, laboriously carrying several bags of clinking stuff, the five-year-old in the home of the ribbon-counter clerk dreamed on of saving up his pennies until he could buy a pony.