Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 12, 1927 — page 124: what you’re looking at

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

118 bank roll would be given to the flames only over the unconscious form of Sam Tack! Vi. Art the imposing offices of the North At- lantic Metals Company Mr. Tack balked. Through the glass doors he could see im- portant looking men with fifty cent cigars in their teeth, dapper clerks and distract- ing stenographers. “T couldn’t get away with nothin’ with them highbrows,” Sam told himself and withdrew a moment to consider. A few yards along the street great double gates stood open for the entrance or exit of powerful trucks. Gazing down a vista of squat buildings from whose chimneys belched fire and smoke, Mr. Tack could see the yards by the water side, and, even then, two barges unloading their miscellaneous cargoes. Instantly he determined what he would do. Approaching the burly gateman, he said with summoned deference, “ Mind if I go this way? I’m from Feldman’s, an’ one o’ my barges is down there.” “ Sure,” the man answered amiably. “ That’s all right.’ And Sam walked in- side. Almost before he reached the dingy wharf he spied the object of his search! There it stood—Mrs. Conti’s stove! No doubt about it! Exactly as Sam had seen it yesterday in the Shapiro wagon! But now the problem was to obtain pos- session! To that end the plan which had been forming in Sam’s mind as he hurried through the yards, past the yawning foun- dries, whipped itself into shape. He chuckled at his own resourcefulness! Carefully seeking out the man who seemed to be in charge, Sam ventured: “Say, mister. Wanta talk t’ ya a minute.” The foreman lounged across to Sam’s side. The latter pointed to the old stove. “I’m from Feldman’s, see,” he began. The man nodded. Quite possible Sam was from Feldman’s. “ What of it?” he asked. “Well. That stove there—it come in with a lot o’ junk yesterday. An’ over oc en ate os aesiat fuecaeae este ey ze Ae one like — ee oe ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. it, on’y it’s broke. We could git the parts outa this one, see? They ain’t makin the model any more, an’ so I told the boys to put this one side—to use in fixin’ the other, see?” The man nodded again. Sam’s explana- tion sounded perfectly reasonable. “What you wanta do?” he inquired. “JT thought I’d ketch it,” replied Mr. Tack. “So I hustled over here. Ill pay ya f’r the lost weight an’ take the thing back.” The foreman hesitated. “I dunno,” he began. “ Did ya see ’em in the office?” ‘““No. What’s the use o’ botherin’ ’em with a little t’ing like a bum stove? Looky here. I'll make it right with you. It’d cost us ten or fifteen bucks to fix the other stove. An’ I'll slip ya five, if you’ll dig up a wagon f’r me to cart it away in.” To Sam’s horror the boss walked up to the stove. ““What’s it made of, anyway?” he asked. “ Gold?” While Sam held his breath the curious one opened the door of the stove and poked about the balled up newspapers within! Presently the door was closed again, but not before beads of perspiration stood co- piously on Sam’s forehead. What a chance! But the fellow had suspected nothing! If he had only dug deeply enough! Wow! “T’m tryin’ to be square with you,” Sam. said. “It’s worth fifteen dollars to us, anyhow. Looky here, I'll slip you ten! I’m in a hurry; it’s late now.” The man laughed. “ All right. over the ten.” Sam did. Fifteen minutes later, perched beside the owner-driver of a one ton truck, Mr. Tack gazed with thumping heart to- ward the Manhattan ferry slip into which the boat was nosing. He really was in a terrible state of mind. He had not dared explore the interior of the stove, or give it more than an occa- sional glance. And, even though the prize was in his clutches, he knew he would worry until it was safely inside his shop—- yes, until the cash had been removed and the old stove battered to pieces by “his own hands! ee: ee Seats Moe eee Heave = a eomicbooke com