day, and I feel good in consequence. I have just come from a
couple of raids, where we had a very lively time, and some of
them had to pull their guns. I found it necessary to punch a
few sports myself. The old sergeant from headquarters treats
me like a son and takes the greatest pride in whatever I do or
write. He regularly assigns me now to certain doors, and I
always obey orders like the little gentleman that I am.
Instead of making me unpopular, I find it helps me with the
sports, though it hurts my chances professionally, as so many
of them know me now that I am no use in some districts. For
instance, in Mott and Pell streets, or in the Bowery, I am as
safe as any precinct detective. I tell you this to keep you
from worrying. They won't touch a man whom they think is an
agent or an officer. Only it spoils my chances of doing
reportorial-detective work. For instance, the captain of the
Bowery district refused me a detective the other morning to
take the Shippens around the Chinese and the tougher quarters
because he said they were as safe with me as with any of the
other men whose faces are as well known. To-night I am going to
take a party to the headquarters of the fire department, where I
have a cinch on the captain, a very nice fellow, who is unusually
grateful for something I wrote about him and his men. They are
going to do the Still Alarm act for me.

These clippings all came out in to-day's paper. The ladies in
the Tombs were the Shippens, of course; and Mamie Blake is a
real girl, and the story is true from start to finish. I
think it is a pathetic little history.

Give my love to all. I will bring on the story I have