All Story Magazine, December 1913 — page 37: what you’re looking at

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

A THIEVES’ -COMEDY. “Here you, cut that out!” The advice came from the bartend- er a trifle too late. An oyster-cracker, plucked from the lunch-counter, struck me just a fraction below the left eye— and it stung like the dickens. With an effort I controlled my tem- per, while the others, scenting sport at my expense, waited, mumbling or grinning their appreciation of the situ- ation. The bartender seemed unde- cided for a minute or two. My negro leered again: “Well, Mistah Puppy Dawg, what you gwine tuh dew ‘bout it?” “Tf the gentleman behind the bar and the gentlemen before it will give me a chance and see fair play — I'll thrash you.” Some one choked, another guf- fawed, the rest muttered among them- selves, craning forward as if to get a better look at me. My negro’s leer slowly vanished. I did not take my eyes off his for a mo- ment. “Yo'll trash me? Yew will?” His great bulk suddenly lurched to- ward me, his enormous fists clenched as if ready to pound me to a jelly. The bartender called a warning sharply; the others backed away. Of course I was horribly scared. The fellow was so big'and brutal, and I was not at all certain of a fair chance, There wasn’t much room, either, to give me the use of my legs to escape the awful weight of the fellow’s fists. Sidestepping, I took him on the chin and jabbed his nose before he had any opportunity to know what had happened. He bellowed like a bull, swung his arms like the sails of a windmill, and because I wasn’t there to get the benefit of it all, he flopped wildly across a small table—to the ex- treme joy of every one but the bar- tender, whose white apron I was hazily conscious of seeing flying over the bar. The negro staggered upright, wiping some blood from his face, and an ominous growl sounded behind me as the bartender suddenly seized my arm. TAT “Leave him be! ” “Gee! He’s a white hope “ He ain't so green!” * Kill him, Batch! Soak it to him!” “ Aw—have a heart! Beat it, mis- ter, while your shoes are good!”’ A jumble of comment came from the crowd. “The bartender rushed me toward the door and I made no resist- ance. A horrible oath sounded behind me —and the scuffing rush of many feet. Suddenly the doors parted inwardly. “ Gregarach! ” The queer sounding name burst from several throats, and the sudden quiet that followed it was like a pall. My escort halted, and his hand fell from my arm. The ardor of the others went out like a snuffed lamp. All at once I felt peculiarly safe. Within the doorway stood a man in a long rain-coat reaching to his ankles, and wearing a broad-brimmed felt hat drawn well down over his eyes. By the height and girth of him I knew it was Campbell. 1 CHAPTER X. “THE GREGARACH,” Tor a moment or two he stood per- fectly still, ignoring me completely, his steely glance going over my shoulder to the silent group behind. Then, all at once, he moved, passing ime like a cavalry charge, and, as I quickly turned my head, I heard the unmistakable impact of fist with face and saw my negro crumple and sink to the floor. Something glittering white slipped from his hand and slid along the oil- cloth almost to my feet. I stooped and picked it up—a razor. Batch’s friends appeared anxious to get as far away from the conflict as possible, leaving half-finished “ beers ” strung out upon the bar and herding toward the “ family entrance *’ which afforded an exit upon Eleventh Avenue. comiicloooks.com