All-Story Weekly, March 1, 1919 — page 174: what you’re looking at

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

616 ALL-STORY WEEKLY. | | | See “] think you are not overstating the case,” replied Jerome. “If there can be any possible explanation, I will be charmed to hear it.” “Well,” said the gruff party, as he toyed with a long, black mustache and glowered, “we are a party of very desperate people. We are, in short, a gang, if I may be per- mitted the expression.” “Quite right,” interrupted the pudgy party, fumbling a large six-shooter. ~ “Point that thing the other way,” growled the gruff person. “If you are de- termined to shoot somebody, either acci- dentally or otherwise, shoot the prisoner.” _ Spike immediately obtained a new range for his artillery and pointed the muzzle of it directly at Jerome’s nose. ‘““We have taken you for ransom,” con- tinued the gruff party. ‘“ Before morning we will notify your father, Mr. Winfield. - When he delivers twenty-five thousand dol- lars to our agent, we will release you. It will be quite hopeless for you to try to escape. There is a high, stone wall around the place, and it is well guarded. We will all observe you carefully. We expect to - decide a momentous question.” “The question being whether my. father will come across with the twenty-five thou- sand dollars,” said Jerome, rising sud- denly. “Look out. He is going to put up a fight and try to get away immediately. I told you any young man would do that,” said the tall, thin man with the red ban- danna around his neck.” “Keep still, One-Shot,” growled the spokesman. ‘‘ Now, young man, so long as you behave yourself, you will be well treat- ed. That you may know us, I will intro- duce our party. I am—” “ But,” interrupted Jerome, seating him- self again, “ before you tell me who you are, let me tell you who I am not. I am not the son of Mr. Winfield.” __ “T would expect you to deny your iden- tity,” said the gruff man. ~“ But, would he do so, in such a posi- tion?” demanded the tall, thin man with the red bandanna around his neck. “Certainly,” replied the ringleader. Such a claim is very transparent.” “ Absolutely,” agreed Spike, the shor€ and pudgy. “It is the first thing that ~ would happen in a drama. Hero denies his identity—doesn’t want to worry poor old | father—wins sympathy of audience. From a dramatic standpoint, your position is well taken, young man; but you are not fooling us. Now—” : “My name,” broke in the gruff party, “is Missouri Dave Lamont, commonly called ‘ Desperate Dave.’ Does that name suggest anything to you? No? Well, several prosperous seasons of kid-glove financial operations such as the one we are now em- barked upon have enabled me to keep this place on Long Island and to live in com- parative luxury. I aim to treat my guests well, as long as they behave themselves, and if they don’t—” Missouri Dave scowled horribly at the young man and pulled at the ends of his long, black mustache. . “Tf he pulls that mustache off,” whis- pered Spike to the tall, thin man, “ the - beans will be permanently spilled.” “ This lady is my wife,” continued Mis- souri Dave, taking the little old-fashioned lady by the hand. “ And, this is my daugh- ter Nell,” presenting the beautiful young woman. “ Nell has proved my best asset. She has never failed me. These gentle- men are my friends and accomplices, Spike and One-Shot,” presenting those two per- sons one after the other. “ They will be your personal guard.”’ ‘« Sixteen men on a dead man’s chest—”’ began Spike in a horrible chant. ‘““Enouch of this,” said Nell. ‘‘ The young man is dead for sleep. Why seek to terrify him further to-night?” “You are right, as always, Nell,” said Missouri Dave. “Spike, conduct your charge to his bedroom.” The charge was led up-stairs and was asleep almost before he touched the pillow. The room lacked nothing in the way of comforts, and a trusted valet named Jean was placed at the disposal of the prisoner. Jean slept on a cot at the foot of the pris- oner’s bed. At ten o’clock the next morning the young man was still unconscious of all worry—peacefully sleeping.