All Story Magazine, December 1913 — page 57: what you’re looking at

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

A THIEVES’ bush, particularly if the thing he is looking for isn’t in the bush at all, but out in the open. “Quite,” he conceded. “ But filthy very filthy. I was speaking to a man I used to meet in Hell’s Kitchen—his name is Crabbe—and he told me that the particularly vile saloon I used to study types in is still in existence in that neighborhood. And IJ understand that this Rob Roy gang frequents that quarter. “Crabbe said he would possibly be down there Wednesday evening, and that he would vouch for our safety, if you cared to look over the district that is considered to be quite as debased as Whitechapel.” He stopped there, waiting for some response to the invitation, and I felt a cold shiver run through me. I don’t know whether he noticed it or not, but I sidled away from him as if he were not quite clean. Then, somehow, | caught at a hint of humor in the busi- ness, and for a few moments, in sheer devilment, I held my peace, watching him squirm upon the rack of uncer- tainty, while he seemed afraid to look into my face in case he might find re- fusal there. “What is this chap—this Crabbe? ”’ I asked carefully. “ Well ’—a sickly smile and an un- certain movement of the hand—* that is—to tell the truth, I'd rather not say. But I fancy he knows what a warden looks like.” “That makes him an_ interesting person. Wednesday evening, did you say?” Rollins’s face cleared instantly. ““ Yes—Wednesday. We'll dine here and go right down afterward. How will that do? ”’ ‘Tam at your disposal, sir.” He smiled, signed to a waiter, and, ordering “two more,” was positively cheerful for the remainder of the evening, the anxieties of fatherhood seeming to have completely slipped his memory. But, then, it isn’t every man who COMEDY. 767 can arrange two “killings” to come off on the same day — Rand Island’s and mine! CHAPTER XVI. AT NOSPIM’S. I was uncertain on Monday morn- ing whether I was fortunate or un- fortunate in having the forenoon to myself. Rollins was unpleasant to have about one, but the idea of bearding several pawnbrokers in their dens was still more so. However, I sallied forth bravely. Out of some five millions of people, probably a dozen knew me, yet I dilly- dallied about the doors of the first shop, fearful that I would be seen and recognized as I went in; and when I did enter the place I am sure I wore a hunted look, because I felt as if half the police of the city were after me. There were a man and a woman waiting at a pigeonholed window, over which was printed “ Pledges.” I joined them and was scrutinized from head to foot in one glance that gave me the impression that I intruded. The man had thrust a watch and some other trifles through the pigeon- hole, and was anxiously—hunerily, in fact — watching the clerk examine them. “Fifteen dollars,’ the latter an- nounced in an inflectionless voice. Atle Ween “Fifteen dollars.” “Gee! An’ I need—can’t you make it—” “ Fifteen dollars.” There was no change in the clerk’s tone or expression, but that of the man who owned the things under- went lightninglike alterations. Sur- prise gave way to annoyance, annoy- ance to indecision, indecision to a hang-dog look of resignation. His shoulders seemed to droop a little, his chin and his knees to sag. There wasn’t any life to his mumbled.“ All right.’ Qo commicloolks.com