The All-Story, March 1914 — page 166: what you’re looking at

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

A GENTLE KNAVE. We ate for an hour, bite and bite about: drinks ditto. I'd busted some boxes and put ‘em on the fire, and the roaring tempest outside seemed to make “em burn twice as bright. I was warm and dry and getting full, none of which, it seemed to me, ‘T'd been for a year: so when he asked a question or two I began to reiminisce as naturally as a drunk to cry. There wasn't much to tell. It began with timid orphan and ended with bold anarchist. Wed come to cigars by this, and I got up and stood on the hearth, my feet wide apart. His eyes were sort of wistful and sad as he looked up at me. “T understand: go on!” he said. “Tye worked like a dog ever since I was big enough to tote scraps to the chickens—for the other fellow!” I growled, savage; “ and, with it all, I've been his door-mat; the springs to lus buggy; the rubber-heels to his shoes. But I never will again!” Seeing he was “interested, and en- couraged by a question or two, I went right on, and sweated out a lot of rot I’d got into my system while sitting on the molasses barrel in Prochasky's cel- lar. I ranted about capital and labor; about equality and rights. and ended by hollering, my hand in the breast of my audience’s coat: “ Never inore will I touch my hat or say ‘ sir’ to any liv- ing man; never more will I labor by the sweat of my brow for a pittance; but I'll take—”’ A long sigh brought me up short. He had slouched down in his chair and his face looked ghastly in the davlighit that was filtering in through the vesti- bule door. I must have looked round pretty wild, for he laughed. Then he got sober and said: Sit dow n, Joe: I've got something to tell you.’ “T— why — good Lord, man!” I cried in a panic, bolting for my truck om the vestibule floor. “ Todd and the cook—” 639 “ Are — not — coming —back. Sit down, I tell you!” Gulping, reluctant, but feeling better with my hand on the gun in the bag, I sat down on the edge of the chair. He looked at ine, his big, tired eyes sort of pitying. “JT have a disappointment for you,” he said at last. ‘“‘ There isn’t a sou’s worth left in the house.” “Wh-what!” “Not a sou’s worth. That rascally Todd and the cook have decamped with everything they could carry.” “ But, you—wh—why didn’t you—”’ Something in his eyes stopped me. “T am paralyzed from my _ head down, Joe; paralyzed!” My heels slithered softly along the floor as far away from ine as they could get: my hands slid off the arms of the chair, and my jaw sank gently into the boson of my shirt. “P'ralyzed!”’ I heard whispered; and I guess it was me. “Yes. You can imagine how glad I was to hear you fall into the vesti- bule. J might not have been found in time, you know, Joe.” T looked at him; hollow-eyed, bound tight enough to hold an ox; but with that brave smile still on his face. “I got you to tie me up— Man! Man!” He stopped to laugh softly, then went on: “I thought you would never take the hint, though, and that was the on: way I knew to get fed without your knowing the fix I was in; and then I amused you in every way I could, for I was afraid you might leave me as the others had done; that is, I was afraid at first: I’m not now.” He smiled at me; trusting, confiding. Suddenly his lips began to quiver, and he shut his eves tight. “Tm so tired, Joe,” he whispered. Iocan't remember rightly just what I did; but I think I stared at him a minute longer; then, with a sort of whimpering snarl, I fell on him. I un- tied his hands; I unwound the scarf from his legs; I picked him up and ran with him to the bed.in the.roam be-