Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 102: what you’re looking at

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

92 Coventry, Sadface began to feel that after all it was a more or less insufficient punish- ment. Certainly, the death of little Whip- py called for more. ‘The memory of that sun punished day in Peregrine Street often rose before him. There was no thought of vengeance as such in his mind—but justice only. And he did not guite know how it could be achieved. Sadface lay on his bed in the afternoon, looking out at the clouds that floated white- ly across the cobalt sky. They were little clouds, woolly and shining in the slant of the sun, and made him think of the starched and spotless little girls he had seen romping with their nursemaids in Paris. Peculiar that he should think of those imnocents when he was trying to focus his thoughts on the proper punishment for Sergeant Bugler McCarty—a coward. The drowsy hum of insects outside the window and the soft sammer air was sooth- ing. He slept. It might have been an hour; it might have been three or four when he woke with a sudden feeling of suffocation. He tried to call out and rise, but he could only flounder helplessly. His wrists and ankles were securely strapped and there was a gag between his teeth. Only his eyes were iree to move, and there at the foot of the bed he saw Papa Merchaux, the innkeeper. Whelen had always thought Merchaux’s broad, white face a perfect index of stu- pidity. Now, on the contrary, it expressed only brutality and ferocity. In his hand he held a long, dull colored knife. When their eyes met the innkeeper leaned over the bed and laughed until it creaked pro- testingly. “ Ah, cochon, you are awake, I see,” he gurgled. “ And you wonder at the plight in which you find yourself. It is easily explained. I have need of money. You have it; all Americans are wealthy. So I will add yours to mine, and send you very easily to a place where you will have no need of it. Then I will do the same to this, Irelandais, McCarty. You think I am afraid. Bor, it is well to keep up your cour- age. But permit me to tell you that one who has served in the disciplinary battalions ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. of Biribi has no fear of anything.’ And that’s that, monsieur.” He waved his knife with a swageer. Sadface cautiously tested his bonds. He had no belief in miracles, and he felt quite certain that unless he succeeded in loos- ening himself Papa Merchaux would calmly cut his throat. But it was useless. The straps had been tied by a skillful hand. sadface drew a long breath, and lay there, looking at Papa’s bull neck and wondering if it would ever feel the halter for this job, when the door opened and his eyes fell on the forest green uniform and square, red face of Bill McCarty. A Marine has seen too much ever to be taken by surprise. No sooner had McCarty glanced at Whelen’s bound figure than he understood how the land lay. “So that’s the game, is it, Merchaux?” he cried. “ I thought there might be some- thing in the wind when I saw you creeping up here so carefully. You’ll smell the inside of the gendarmerie for this.” He was unarmed, but he leaped forward, gripping for the innkeeper’s wrist. They swayed there; chest to chest, rising on their toes in an intensity of effort, for Papa Mer- chaux was no weakling. He sought to drive his knife downward, but without avail. The heart of Sadface Whelen swelled with a sudden gratitude that he had never expected to feel for his enemy of Peregrine Street. McCarty was fighting for him! Suddenly the innkeeper wrenched him- Self loose, darted to the bed, and stabbed at Whelen’s throat. Sadface flung himself to the opposite side of the bed. The blade missed him, but the butt and Papa’s fist struck him a terrific blow between the eyes. Consciousness departed in a bursting sheet of flame, Sadface seemed to find himself in the open, watching the Rue Pigalle with a sud- den intensity of interest; watching an army emerge from it. Out of the narrow street the marchers issued, their heavy boots beating a sad and monotonous tune on the paving stones. Every man’s equipment was _ identical. Every pack was fastened at the same angle; every rifle was sloped over every shoulder in the same manner. And—Sergeant Bugler GCOMIGd oOo <S (©)