Judge — May 22, 1920 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

inmost consciousness, just as a large, whiskery voice ap- proached on tiptoe. “If you are busy,” said the richly upholstered Cashier, “T would Fike to tell you a long, dull story.” Perrett’ 's ears turned slight- ly green, but, holding his tem- per with one hand, he smiled sweetly with the other. That did no good, however, and the Cashier proceeded. “Last night—are you lis- tening?—I was passing the Bank. To do this, I was, of course, on the outside of the inside—one passes things bet- ter that way, as the waiter said, when he put his thumb in the soup. I sawa man with a ladder—perhaps the ladder, however, was with the man—it was too dark to tell.”” Ferrett watched him awfully. “How great and good was the man?” “He was something between fifty and sickly.” “T thought so!—and he had an air of stealthitude?”? “Oh, no. He had an open air—he was outside, you know.” “TI thought he was in the ladder.” “In, but not in for good. He was among it at times, and again as if not so much.” “T see. And he broke into the window? It must have caused him a sharp pane!” The Cashier, without appearing to notice the insult, kicked the Detective enthusiastically across the room and returned to his work of playing with seveni dollar bills. He was a pious man with two sons—one alive, and one married. Drown by R. B. Feues Cuapter III The Horrible Hat Pin PERRETT found himself in a corner eating a woman’s fur cape. It tasted like Hudson Bay seal, but you never can tell, these days when there are so many dyed muskrats on Fifth Avenue. There was a hat pin sticking into his eye. He couldn’t see it very plainly, but he felt sure it was there. at hat pin had an indefinable scent. Did it smell like artichokes, most, or quarternions? Suddenly Workman—Can't ye read? “Y-yes, but th’ d-darn skate c-can’t!” he recognized it—it was the odor of a vault—a piney, Bank blend. It was a clue. Intuition told him that it belonged to the Paying Teller. But intuition lied. It was the property of a would-be-blonde stenographer who blushed and cast her eyes to the floor. She left them there, but she took away the hat pin. Cuarter IV The Plot Coagulates “THE. Albino Detective was sore. He left the Bank for an eye-opener. But, find- ing that Prohibition had be- come naturalized, he entered a Delicatessen. Lurking behind a huge Dill pickle, he saw the Stenographer enter, tainingly. “Father,” she said, “it was not strong enough. We have failed!” The old man wept bitterly. “I have had it since be- fore long,” he said. “I was sure it was quite powerful.” “We must have more, and try again. Yet how I dread sleeping again in that waste basket! I always feel so discarded.” “Alas, I am all out of it!” said he to which we have reference. What was that which it was what? as the French so eloquently express it, thought Ferrett. If the old man was out of it now he must have then been init. You can prove it yourself with a little figuring, or even less, Yet ‘errett worked on it for some time. Calculation had al- - ways been hard tohim after that last attack of gold teeth. A Bolshevik then entered and asked for something in a low voice—something in a tin, also—something in vain. “Alas, I am all out of it!” said the old man, in almost the identical words he had used in a previous and equally interesting Paragraph. The Red departed like a fading sunset—but Ferrett was on his trail. z Cuarter V The Mystery Solved ‘TEALING after the Russian Communist, the Albino attacked him with a razor and a cake of soap. In the twinkling of a nose he had the disciple News From THE SOCKYARDS—BRANDING THE CALvES