Now a bucket shop is where people buy and sell stock on less margin or in smaller quantity than is accepted on the curb on Broad Street or on the Stock Exchange. These establishments, too, are fast disappearing, though as is always possible in New York, an exception--as in all directions of semi-organized crime--manages to keep from the sharp talons of the law for a longer period of time.
The bucket shops were where messenger boys and clerks gamboled with Dame Fortune. Sooner or later they lost--lost not only every cent to their names, but much of their self-respect and honesty. It was also the place for the men who had gone down to defeat in the great battle fought bitterly every minute of the day in the great financial arena. These men were unfit for everything else, so they turned to the bucket shops as a drowning man grasps at a straw. But we have digressed enough--though this was really necessary--and let us continue with the narrative.
Bill did not know what to make of it all.
Surely Tom Jukes had little need to play for stakes. His father was sufficiently wealthy and knew the great money game, and its pitfalls, not to have acquainted his son with them. The more Bill thought, the more puzzled he became.
"Git out," bawled the voice, evidently that of the proprietor, "or I'll have you put out!"
"You do, and I'll have you in the hands of the police within twenty-four hours!"
"You will, will you?" came the snarling challenge, followed by a general commotion.
"Here's where I take a hand!" decided Bill, and leaped into the room, now in fearful confusion.
"Stop!" cried Bill, drawing his revolver, which he had a special permit to carry at any time he wished, "or I'll fire!"
"Stand where you are!" Bill demanded, noting a suspicious movement on the part of several to escape.
"Bill, good old Bill!" exclaimed Tom, overjoyed.
"Yes, it's Bill," was the reply. "Call up Headquarters while I hold them in line."
"That's your tip, Fred," said Tom, turning to the young man Bill had noticed before. "On the run now!"
The young man called Fred seemed to need no further invitation.
Tom now joined Bill. From one of the drawers of the desk at which the proprietor had been seated, Tom brought to light an ugly-looking Colt.