Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 14, 1928 — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

158 and thrust a black object against his stomach which Lester knew was a re- volver. “Stick ’em up, bo,’ was the com- mand. It was the first time in his life that Lester Lucus had encountered a hold- up man, but instinctively he knew what to do. He stuck them up. His eyes roamed about for help, and he saw that the streets were by no means de- serted ; there were people on the oppo- site side, a couple of men fifty feet ahead, a pair of girls just beyond at the entrance to a subway kiosk; but no policeman was visible. The robber was not flourishing his weapon so that all who passed might see; he was standing within a foot of Lester, talking confidentially, so it seemed, and the gun was poked against the ribs of the young merchant prince. In Lester’s trousers pocket was a huge roll of bills, in both his coat pockets were a pound or two of silver; his im- pulse was to swing on the bandit and save his hard-earned profits. Holdup men, he had read, were cow- ards, drug addicts, sniveling hounds who fled at the first sign of resistance, and who were too much in fear of the electric chair to shoot. The thing to do is to present a bold front to a holdup man, show fight, and nine times out of ten escape harm. Only, suppose this was the tenth time? Suppose this robber was of a different type from the regular brand, a desperado who could not be scared off, a man who had just as soon kill as eat, a bad-tempered fellow who would resent disobedience so much he would disregard consequences ? In that case, all he had to do would be crook his forefinger about a quarter of an inch and a slug of lead would go tearing into Lester’s stomach, raising mischief, interfering with his diges- tion, preventing him from being on hand to sell hot cops in the morning. What, after all, was a couple of hun- dred dollars? A small sum, not worth ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, the loss of a good man’s life. If he obeyed his impulse to land on the jaw of the gimlet-eyed bandit, he would probably save his day’s receipts, but he might rest upon a marble slab at. the morgue. It takes a lot of words to describe the mental reactions of Lester Lucus to the jab in the ribs with the muzzle of a revolver, but they all happened in a fraction of a second while his hands were going skyward. “Step in here,” commanded the yegg, backing into the doorway. Lester stepped. Keeping the gun leveled with his right hand, the robber thrust his left into the right trousers pocket of his captive and, with some difficulty, withdrew a huge roll of ones and fives. “ Hot dog!” he exulted. “ That’s the way I got it,”’ said Les- ter, who could not resist the opening. “Shut up!” He jammed the cash into his own left trousers pocket, then felt of Lester’s jacket pockets, and his eyes gleamed as he touched the halves, quarters, dimes, and nickels, *T seen you was hauling it in,” he said pleasantly as he made the trans- fer. ‘ Gee, feller, you made a clean-up to-day!” “You mean you did,’ retorted Les- ter, trying to impress the man’s appear- ance on his mind, The fellow was undersized, slouch- ing, wore one of those nondescript, mud-colored suits of clothes and an old gray cap, which was pulled down over his forehead. All Les could see was a pair of small black eyes, a red broad nose, and a chin covered with black stubble. The collar was turned up. Go into any cheap Bowery lodging house and you would find a score of derelicts who looked exactly like him, Lester thought. But the robber had now emptied both pockets of silver, and the shape of the young man’s well-cut coat was no longer distorted by the weight of. several hundred coins. The man ran his hand across his prisoner’s vest, and COPNICLOOOKS (C@)