The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 2 — page 25: what you’re looking at

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

GETTING AWAY FROM THOMPSON. “Vou will have to be here next week for the settling of the estate, of course,” was her reminder. ‘‘Meanwhile, call us on the long distance, dear, and if there is—er— any other reason for your returning, we can tell you.” Aunt Hettie had already started down- stairs. Jane’s high color faded suddenly. “Pm not thinking about returning just now,” she said; “I’m just thinking about getting away from Thompson. I’m never coming back here until he has been tried and sent to Sing Sing or some other big prison. And dear Aunt Martha, when he does appear, lock yourself in your room and don’t breathe until they’ve overpowered him, will you?” Mrs. Porter-Preston laughed and kissed her niece; and the niece, having glanced at the little clock, fled precipitately. When she overtook Aunt Hettie, the elder lady was in the reception-room, ex- amining Wilbur Farnham from his grin of amused surprise to his carefully shod feet. Jane’s introduction she acknowledged with a brief nod and added an expressive sniff —and Dixon, pausing in the doorway to ask if the bags should be placed in the car, saved a rather painful moment. Jane’s own maid fluttered into sight, too, with her motor-coat and bonnet, permitting Farnham to assist her mistress while she herself persuaded Aunt Hettie to don the garment Aunt Martha had sent down, and thus, very shortly, they passed from the Porter-Preston mansion and paused on the steps to gaze at Jane’s beloved new six. As a camping outfit, the car bore every earmark of real business just now. Long canvas rolls were strapped on the off side— tents, apparently, and folding cots—and on the back a pair of big leather cases were secured. Mr. Farnham spoke his mind. “It looks good to me!” Jane dimpled quite happily again. “It looks as if we could set up house- keeping wherever we liked, at any rate,” she said. “It ruins the lines of the car utterly,” Aunt Hettie submitted. “That isn’t your man Jones.” ‘“That’s my temporary man, Cragg,” Jane laughed. “His profile isn’t much for beauty, is it?” Together they stared critically at Mr. Crage’s profile as, hands on the wheel, he looked stonily ahead. It was no side-face to rouse an artist’s 207 soul; the square chin was too small and the nose retreated bashfully upward. Beyond this, Mr. Cragg’s forehead sloped slightly backward under his cap, which was pulled too far down. Still, he wasethere for utility rather than mere ornamentation and Jane led the way toward him and the journey on which he was to pilot them. She came to the side of the car and said: “Crage, call first at—”’ And it was here that the strange, the unaccountable thing happened! Cragg, turning briskly, faced her for the fraction of a second with a countenance that was all respectful attention. And on the second it seemed as if a physical blow had been dealt him! Mr. Cragg bounced straight up from his seat and bounced down again. His ruddy cheeks went white; his rather deep-set eyes bulged momentarily from their sockets as he stared at Jane. His hands, leaving the wheel, clutched the air as he drew them back convulsively; and then he shrank back, gazing still at Jane Fayre as a murderer might gaze at the specter of his victim! ‘‘Er—aah!” said the unusual Cragg, by way of greeting. CHAPTER IV. THE LAZY JOG. | was Farnham who said blankly: “What on earth is wrong with the man?” ‘“I—I don’t know,” Jane faltered. ‘Did I startle him or—” ‘What zs the matter with you?” Mr. Farnham demanded, leaning over the arm of Cragg’s seat and staring at him. ‘‘Sick?” _ The driver swallowed audibly. ‘““T-—ain’t sick!” he replied hoarsely and forced a ghastly little smile as he dragged his eyes from Jane,Fayre. “I ain’t sick.” “Did I frighten you when I spoke?” Jane asked, wonderingly. Once more the remarkable Cragg looked at her, meeting her eyes squarely for a mo- ment, apparently searching her counte- nance for something and, to some degree, finding what he sought. He turned away and huddled farther down in his seat. “Yes, ma’am, beg your pardon,” he mumbled. ‘‘I’m—like that sometimes when anybody speaks sudden into that ear. It CORMICLOOOKS (C@