The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 2 — page 78: what you’re looking at

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

260 Now he slung the reins over the picket fence as he descended to earth, and, quite oblivious to the tragedy in the homestead, advanced upon the unoccupied automobile. A broad-shouldered man and_ rather heavy of feature, at first sight one might have fancied him stolid and unemotional, yet it was plain almost immediately that he owned a high-pitched nervous organism. With quick, jerky steps he approached Jane’s car and stopped short. His head was thrust forward suddenly. He stooped and stared hard at the license tags so neatly fashioned by Mr. Farnham. He felt of them, wiggling their flimsy card- board structure, and, distant though he was, they could hear him growl as he stood erect and stared at the house. The woman, having pushed past’ them, was on the narrow porch and shrilling: “Thornton! You Thornton Hill! Come up here! I want you!” Grimly the constable nodded and swung up the path, and the nearer he came the more he looked like a real officer of the law. His chin was very square and his hands large and hairy, but one forgot them when one met his eye, which possessed that cold, steady, accusing stare used almost exclusive- ly by paying tellers. The eye studied Jane as its owner came to the steps, and found her lacking; it in- spected Mr. Farnham with even less ap- proval. It passed to the elder woman, and grew merely grave as the constable said: “You want me about these people, Miss Turner?” “That’s just what I do want you about, Thornton!” the lady informed him readily. “They come in here and made me cook a meal, and they ain’t willing to pay three dollars when—”’ “You just leave this to me, Miss Turner,” the constable said quietly. ‘You'll get your three dollars.” “T’d very much prefer dealing with you!” Mr. Farnham began warmly. ‘“This—”’ All the majesty of the sovereign people’s law was in the hand that stayed him. “That’s enough. I'll do the talking, young feller,” said the constable. “You'll get all the dealings with me you want, I take it.” “Vien —? “Didn’t know Cook lived in Batesford, or you’d have taken another route, hey?” the law pursued, with an evil smile. “Cook?” asked Jane. THE ARGOSY. “Turnips!” breathed Mr. Farnham. “No, I'd forgotten the man was. alive. But—” “That'll do; you don’t have to say noth- ing that'll commit you,” the constable chuckled most unpleasantly; and abruptly his eye abandoned all other concerns and attached itself to Mr. Farnham as a post- age-stamp to its letter! “What’s your name, young feller?” “Fenwick!” exploded Mr. Farnham. “This here lady?” “My sister.” “Your car, I take it?” “Of course.” “Belongs to you, does it?” “Naturally,” said © Mr. Farnham. ‘iew2”’ “Umum!” browsed the sheriff and ca- ressed his square chin. ‘‘Them are your license numbers, are they?” ‘Yes.’ > T2008” “Certainly!” admitted the brazen young man. “Don’t use regular metal tags, do you? Just pasteboard ones?” For a brain so long accustomed to honest thought, Mr. Farnham’s was adapting it- self very nicely; already he had the outline of a story that would account perfectly for the strips of pasteboard! ‘““As to those,” he began, with a bland smile, “they happen to be there be—” “Because you stole that car!’ the con- stable thundered suddenly. “What?” gasped the criminal thinker. “You stole it,” Mr. Hill said triumphant- ly. “I dunno yet who you stole it from or where it belongs, but—”’ “You're crazy!” Mr. Farnham said an- grily. ‘Am I?” laughed the arm of the law. ‘“Mebbe so, but I’m not a plain, ordinary, blasted fool, anyway! When I take to thinking up numbers for stolen cars, I’ll get out the book and pick some that ain’t in use. That G 1200 is my own license num- ber!” He leaned gracefully on the porch rail- ing, permitting his large revolver to form the keynote of his pose, as it protruded from his pocket! - Had he meant this as a subduing hint, it was wasted effort. ‘Temporarily, the news that he had picked the one worst possible number out of several hundred thousand had quite subdued Mr. Farnham. COMMICLOOOKS. EGO