Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 123, No. 3 — page 180: what you’re looking at

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

. 462 He went to the door, with a notion that perhaps a neighbor was ill. The season was early wiriter, and at nightfall a light snow had set in. Glancing out of a win- dow, Daniel Rodd observed that a thin coverlet of white spread over the earth. Gray moonlight illummated the night. Rodd reached the door and stood for a moment with his hand on the bolt. - “Who’s there?” he demanded. “ Tt’s me, Dan,” came a soft voice from outside. $ Rodd recognized the tones of Buckley, yet the presence of that man was so im- probable that he hesitated. “Ts that you, Phil Buckley?” he in- quired. “Yes, it’s me—Phil Buckley.” Rodd opened the door. His old friend of the prison, a hunted look on his face, slunk into the house. The men clasped hands silently. Ata. ‘ sign from Daniel Rodd the visitor dropped into a chair beside the kitchen stove, and huddled there while the farmer stirred up the fire. The two men seemed to under- stand each other, and neither spoke. The family was soon awake. The wife of Daniel Rodd appeared with a shawl about her shoulders, for the house was chilled. Instinctively she knew the visitor’s identity, and she gazed upon him compas- sionately. The boys came from their beds and regarded the stranger quietly. An at- mosphere of momentous events hovered over the farmhouse. Not until he had the firé burning brightly did Daniel Redd ’ “Sarah, and boys,” he said, moving his solemn eyes from one face to another, “this is Phil Buckley, my friend.” The woman and her sons nodded to the man beside the stove. He tured his face, soiled by rough travel, up to them and nodded. The woman came to his side and shook his hand. “You're welcome, Mr. Buckley,” she said simply. “Thanks, ma’am,” said Buckley. Daniel Rodd said: “ Sarah, maybe you and the boys better go back to bed. It’s likely that Phil and me will want to haye a talk.” - ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. The farmer went out of the room with his family and returned soon more fully dressed. The two men were alone, ' “ F expect you run off, Phil,” said Daniel Rodd. “Yes,” the fugitive told him, “1 -run off.”’ “How did you manage it, Phil?” “Tt took me eight days,’ Buckley re- lated. His voice was husky, and, m the manner of fugitives, his gaze traveled_rest- lessly. ‘‘ Eight days, but I made it. I hid out for seven days, Dan, under the bakery: I heard ’em beatin’ up the prison for six days. Then, I reckon, they decided ¥’d got outside the walls. On the mornim’ uf the eighth day I got into the guard-tower back of the bakery and hid in a closet under the Stairway. That night I crept out and dropped over. the wall.” “ Eight days,” Daniel Rodd repeated. ‘ And what ’d you eat all that time, Phil?” “ Nothing but bread that I stole out of the bakery at night; dry bread. Every night I’d drmk my fill of water in the “bakery and then dodge back with a hunk of bread. It was hell,‘Dan, layin’ in that hole.” = ‘1 don’t see how you stood it.” “‘T had life to do,” said the fugitive simply. ‘A man can stand anything, if he’s gettin’ away from that.” He glanced around the room and went on: “It took me five days, travelin’ at night, to get here. I begged food at farmhouses—but not much. 9) : Daniel Rodd thereupon bethought him- self and got cold food for for his visitor. He warmed coffee, and the man ate ravenously. He knew he was safe, for the moment at least, but nevertheless his eyes roved appre- hensively. Daniel Rodd studied the newcomer theughtfully. ‘Where ’d you get them clothes, Phil?” he ashed. ‘““Them clothes,” repeated Buckley, sur- veying the ill-assorted garments. ‘‘ Oh, I picked ’em up in prison, a piece at a time. They’re trusty clothes.” His hast meditated. “If they’re prison clothes,” he said, “ you’d better get rid of ’em. PP] Phil’s eye brightened. “I'd like to do (f— | —_ — q J ww ’