10-Story Detective, November 1942 — page 34: what you’re looking at

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

32—__—_——_————_10-STORY DETECTIVE Little John. “I heard a bunch of shots. Didn’t they hit you?” “Maybe,” Little John said de- liberately, ‘‘once. But I think they were too full of food. And these wicked people—they aim for the face, which is all right when the victim is shut up in a room or a car, but not—” “But I heard Tyson yell to shoot you in the belly. How about that?” “T feel a little tickle there,” Little John admitted. “A little tickle!” gasped the girl. “A shot in the stomach,” said Little John, “is very bad—unless the stomach is empty. Then it may not damage so much.”’ “You mean your stomach is empty?” Little John drew the girl closer. “These men,” he said, ‘‘made the mistake of choosing one who is out of work. I have eaten nothing in three days!”’ The girl sighed. “What now, big boy?” “TI carried you here. Now I carry you back!” “Not so easy,” said the girl. ‘‘It’s going to be tough. We can’t make the woods from here without going past the boat—and Tyson’s there with the machine gun!” Little John stood the girl on her feet again. “You stay here,” he sald. She caught his arm. ‘‘That empty stomach of yours,” she said, “ain’t going to help you against a machine gun. And that’s one thing Tyson can handle okay. He can drill us—”’ Her voice was lost in the sudden menacing crackle from the boat. At the same instant, Little John’s hand slammed her down into the sand, and he dropped beside her. Bullets sang over their heads, then abrupt- ly ceased. The girl said nothing more, but lay close to Little John. Little John glanced about. Obviously, there was no escape anywhere in the little cove except back by way of the woods, and it was impossible to reach there except by going past the boat. And there was no spot in the cove that wasn’t within reach of the machine gun. The moonlight made every ob- ject visible. Not over twenty yards away, the boat bobbed gently against the ten-foot wharf, the platform of which hung over the water, perched on timbers sunk into the soil. The worn timbers swayed and creaked. The outgoing tide tugged at the boat and strained the stout rope that held it. There was no way of getting at those ropes without being com- pletely exposed to machine-gun fire at close range. The girl whispered to Little John: “Tyson is moving the ma- chine gun forward so he can hit us lying down!”’ Little John said: “You stay here.” He started forward on his stom- ach. She jerked at his sleeve. “Don’t do that! He’ll get you—” “You stay here,” Little John said again. HE girl sighed a little, as if, for the first time in her life, it pleased her to obey orders. Little John moved forward, toward the boat. His form was like a great sea monster’s, wriggling across. the sand, every movement taking him away from the girl, nearer the wharf. He vanished into the water. At the same moment, the ma- chine gun again tore the silence in- to shreds. Obviously, Tyson had seen Little John and was aiming at him; lead splintered the top of the wharf. The girl lay silent, her body taut, eyes straining for a sight of Little John. Presently the machine gun was quiet again. The seconds wore on. No movement was visible. cComiclool C©@ 5}