 Section 7 of The Black Cat, Volume 1, No. 1, October 1895 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org The Black Cat, Volume 1, No. 1, October 1895 Section 7, The Red Hot Dollar, by H. D. Umstucker It lacked three minutes of five by the big clock in the tower when the eastbound Chicago Express rumbled into the station at Buffalo. The train had not yet come to a standstill when a hatless man jumped from the platform of the rear sleeping car and ran across the tracks into the depot restaurant. A few minutes later he reappeared, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a small paper bag in the other. With these he hurriedly made his way back to the car through a straggling procession of drowsy tourists who were taking advantage of the train's five minutes stop to breathe the crisp morning air. The last of these had already resumed his seat when the man without a hat again appeared at the lunch counter. He returned to borrow dishes and ordered coffee for himself. He had just picked up the cup and was raising it to his lips when the conductor's all aboard rang through the station. Leaving the coffee untouched he thrust a five dollar bill at the attendant, grabbed his change and started in pursuit of the moving train. He had almost reached it when an unlucky stumble sent the coins in his hand rolling in all directions along the floor. Quickly recovering himself and paying no heed to his loss he redoubled his efforts and, though losing ground at every step, kept up the hopeless chase to the end of the station. There he stopped, panting for breath. The slip had proved fatal. He had missed the train as he stood staring wildly through the clouds of dust that rose from the track a young woman evidently deeply agitated suddenly appeared in the doorway of the vanishing car. Upon seeing him she made frantic attempts to leap from the platform when she was seized by a man and pulled back into the car. When the door had closed upon the two the bareheaded man in the station faced about and philosophically muttered. It's fate. Then, after pausing a few moments, as if to collect his thoughts, he slowly retraced his steps to the scene of his mishap and began calmly searching for his lost change. Circling closely about, his eyes scanning the floor, he succeeded in recovering first one and then another of the missing coins until finally, after repeated rounds, he lacked only one dollar of the whole amount. At this point he paused, clinked the recovered coins in his hand, looked at his watch and then started on a final round. As this failed to reveal the missing piece, he gave up the search, transferred the contents of his hands to his trousers pocket and started in the direction of the telegraph office. He had proceeded perhaps twenty paces when it occurred to him to turn about and cast one more look along the floor. As he did so, his eye fell upon a shining object lodged in an opening between the rail and planked floor, a few feet from where he stood. He stooped to examine it and, seeing that it was the missing coin, reached for it, but found the opening too narrow to admit his fingers. He tried to recover the piece with his pocket knife and, failing in this attempt, took his lead pencil, with which, after repeated attempts, he succeeded in tossing it upon the floor. With an air of subdued satisfaction, he walked away and was about to convey the coin to his pocket when a sudden impulse led him to examine it. Holding it up before his eyes, he stopped, scrutinized every detail, and as he turned it over and over, the puzzled look on his face changed to one of rigid astonishment. For fully a minute he stood as if transfixed. Then, rousing himself and looking anxiously about as if to see if any one had observed him, he hurried to the cashier's desk in the restaurant and, producing the bright silver dollar, asked the girl if she happened to remember from whom she received it. She didn't remember, but would exchange it for another, she said, if he wished. Politely declining the offer and apologizing for having troubled her, he said that, as the coin he held in his hand was separating a loving wife from her husband, he wished very much to find some trace of its former owner. The girl looked up, thought for a moment, then, pulling out the cash drawer and examining its contents, said she might have received it from the conductor of the Lakeshore Express, which had left for Cleveland at 3.15. She now recalled that when she came on duty at midnight there was no silver dollar among the change in the cash drawer, and that the only one she remembered receiving was from sleeping-car conductor Parkins. The man thanked her and hastened to the telegraph office, where he sent this message. Conductor Eastbound Chicago Express, Utica NY She's asked Lady in Section 7 of Sleeping-Car Cataba to await her husband at Delavan House, Albany. A. J. Hobart. Requesting the operator to kindly rush the dispatch, he proceeded to the ticket office, procured a seat in the 545 Fast Mail for Cleveland, and, with his hand clutching the coin in his pocket and his eyes fixed upon the floor, meditatively paced up and down the platform, waiting for the train to arrive. As he did so, he was disconcerted to find himself the object of widespread curiosity. Even the newsboys with the morning papers favored him with an inquiring stare as they passed. Wondering what was amiss, he suddenly put his hand to his head, which furnished an instant explanation. He was hatless. At the big clock, he saw that it lacked ten minutes of train-time, and hastily crossing over to the farther track, he disappeared through the west end of the station. Among the passengers who boarded the 545 Fast Mail for Cleveland, when it thundered into the station ten minutes later, was the bare-headed gentleman of a few minutes ago, now wearing a stylish derby. Once in the train, he settled himself in his seat with a sigh of relief and satisfaction. Not until then did the really remarkable character of the situation dawn upon him. On the very day which he had hailed as one of the happiest of his life, he was traveling at the rate of about sixty miles an hour away from the girl he loved, devotedly, and to whom he had been married just seventeen hours. A queer opening of his honeymoon. In his anxiety to get a cup of coffee for his wife, he had lost his hat, then lost his chain, and lastly lost the train. Why did he not follow his bride at once? What mysterious spell had come upon this seventeen-hour bridegroom that he should fly from her as swiftly as the Fast Express could carry him. His hand held the solution of the problem. Simple, yet unexplainable, a silver dollar. It held the secret he must unravel before he could return to her. It was not then that he loved her less, but that this bit of precious metal had suddenly developed an occult power that had turned their paths for the present in opposite directions. At the first stopping-place he sent another message which read as follows. Mrs. A. J. Hobart, Delevenhouse, Albany, and Y. Cannot possibly reach Albany before tomorrow morning. Ansel. With his brain filled with excited thoughts, the young man entered the sleeping-car office at Cleveland four hours later and asked for conductor Parkins. He was told that this official would not be on duty before night, though possibly he might be at his home on St. Clairstree. To the address given him the indefatigable young man repaired at once and found the genial gentleman for whom he sought breakfasting with his family. He kindly gave audience at once to his visitor. This coin which you gave the cashier of the restaurant in Buffalo, said the latter, revealing it in the palm of his hand. Can you tell me from whom you received it? Parkins remembered receiving cash from but two passengers the night before. One a traveling man who got off in Cleveland and the other a woman whose destination was Erie. The stranger might ascertain their names by consulting the car diagram at the ticket office. You seem interested in the coin, he added, smiling. I am, for a good reason, laughed the young man in reply. It is separating a man from his wife. And with these enigmatic words he made his adieu. With thanks hastened to the ticket office and an hour later was scouring the city for one Richard Spears. The register of the Stillman House contained the freshly written name of Richard Spears, Providence R.I. But that gentleman, when found in his room showing samples of hardware to a prospective buyer, regretted that he could not throw any light on the particular dollar his visitor held up to his gaze, and remembered distinctly that he had given the conductor a two dollar bill in payment for his birth. He came from a section, he said, where people took no stock in silver dollars. It was three o'clock in the afternoon when a man got off the train at Erie and inquired of the cabman and depo master regarding a lady who had arrived on the early train from Buffalo. An hour later he was driving along a country road some miles south of the town inquiring for the Wickliffe Farm. As he finally drove up to the house, which was his destination, he was conscious of a strange excitement. This, he realized, was probably his only remaining chance to trace the coin by whose mysterious power he had been drawn into this wild chase with the hope of identifying its former owner. He took a hasty note of the general features of the place. It had a comfortable, well-to-do look, a two-story house, white with green blinds. Most of these were closed, as is customary with country houses. But the windows at the right of the big front door, opening on a small porch, were shaded only by white curtains. There was a sound of voices within as he stepped up to the door and rapped. Mrs. Wickliffe, a pleasant-faced little woman, sat surrounded by three children and a neighbor's wife, to whom she was displaying some purchases. As one of the children opened the door, admitting the stranger into this animated scene, she was standing before a mirror trying on a new bonnet, which was, eliciting, extravagant praises from the neighbor. After listening to his story, Mrs. Wickliffe said that her memory was so treacherous that she really couldn't say for certain whether or not she gave the conductor the shining dollar. But that if she did, she must have received it from her son in Germantown, P.A., from a visit to whose house she had just returned, and who, before her departure, had exchanged some money for her. She added that, as she took no interest in coin-collecting, a dollar was simply a dollar to her, and that she thought a woman was very foolish to take up with a fad which might ruin her happiness. Her unknown caller thought so, too, admired her taste in millinery, took the address of her son, and clutching the fatal coin more firmly than ever, drove back to Erie, where he boarded the New York Night Express. To the young man who still clutched the silver dollar, sleep was impossible. A multitude of exciting fancies crossed his brain. The developments he hoped to bring about, the curious solution of the problem, its effect upon his future, and the future of one so dear to him. All this murdered sleep for him, as effectually as did the crime on Lady Macbeth's soul. It drove him into the smoking-car, where he sank into a seat and planned and conjectured between puffs of Havana smoke until the train reached Albany. So completely absorbed had he become in the solution of this naughty problem in which his accident of the morning had involved him, and so convinced was he that the information must be, for the time kept a secret, that he actually began to dread what was clearly inevitable, the explanation he must shortly make to his wife. His inclination was to tell her all. His duty to others forbade this. After pondering over the matter he decided to explain that he had a happy surprise in store for her, one that had an important bearing on their future, and which, unfortunately, necessitated a change in their plans for a honeymoon in Europe. This, on reaching the Delavan house, he expressed to a very pretty and very anxious little woman who was awaiting him, together with a good many other things not necessary to this story. And, instead of the steamer for Europe, the reunited pair took a train for Philadelphia. Early the next day the young man presented himself at the office of Dr. James Wycliffe, at Germantown, who smilingly admitted having given the shining dollar to his mother two days before. He had received the coin from a patient, a letter carrier named John Lennon, and remembered it because of the following strange story related to him by Lennon himself. A few days before the carrier was engaged in delivering mail from door to door along Vine Street, Philadelphia, when a zig-zag trip across the street and back again brought him to the narrow stairway of a dingy brick house in front of which hung an enormous brass key bearing the word locksmith. Here he paused to draw a little partial from his bundle. As he did so he heard something fall with a metallic clink upon the stone pavement. He looked and saw that it was a silver dollar which rolled toward the gutter and came to a stop close by the curb. Hastening to pick it up he instantly dropped it with a cry of pain. The coin was almost red-hot. The letter carrier stood nursing his hand and thinking for two or three minutes. Silver dollars do not commonly drop out of the sky. But that this one should thus fall like a meteorite in a condition too heated for handling was certainly more than surprising. It was astounding. The man looked up at the dingy brick house and examined it attentively, noting that the ground floor was occupied as a green grocery and that all of the windows were shut save one in the third story. Then he kicked the mysterious coin into a puddle, fished it out again with his fingers and put it into his trousers pocket. He was about to investigate further when some small boys called his attention to the fact that it was the first day of April, whereupon he proceeded on his way. He gave no further thought to the matter until that night when he found that his thumb and forefinger had been so badly burned as to require treatment. The next morning he called upon the doctor, who dressed the painful hand and received the mysterious coin in payment for his services. That night behind locked doors and one of the officers' rooms of the United States Mint in Chestnut Street, two men were engaged in a long, whispered conference. The wife of one of the men as she sat in her room in the Continental Hotel, anxiously waiting for her husband, was beginning to wonder whether, after all, marriage was a failure. Two days later, in speaking of the seizure of over forty thousand bogus silver dollars and the clever capture of three of the most dangerous counterfeiters that ever attacked the currency of the United States, the Daily News said, The most remarkable part of the whole story is that one of the coins fresh from the machine of one of the counterfeiters fell out of a third-story window near which he was working, was picked up while almost red-hot by a letter carrier and passed as genuine through various hands until it reached Buffalo, where, by the nearest accident, it came into the possession of Mr. Ansel Hobart of the Secret Service. That gentleman noticed an imperfection at one point of its room and succeeded in tracing the coin to the headquarters of the gang on Vine Street in this city, where, under the cloak of a locksmith shop and green grocery business, six hundred of the spurious coins were turned out daily. So admirably were these counterfeits executed as to defy scrutiny saved by experts of the government. The coins were not cast in molds after the ordinary fashion, but were struck with a die and plated so thickly with silver as to withstand tests by acids. The defect which led to the discovery was found only in the one coin already spoken of, and it is supposed that it was this defect that caused the peace to spring from the finishing machine and fall out of the window. And the New York newspapers of three days later contained the intelligence that the white-star steamer Majestic, which sailed for Liverpool that day, had among her passengers Mr. and Mrs. Ansel J. Hobart of Chicago, Illinois. End of Section 7. Recording by narrator J. End of The Black Cat. Volume 1, No. 1. October, 1895.