The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 2 — page 91: what you’re looking at

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

GETTING ing to ’em!” Mr. Hill said viciously, ‘‘Number six, resisting an officer.’’ “The gal, too?” “She helped,” the pitiless one said briefly, leaning on the desk and surveying the aban- doned couple, who were standing limply now and holding each other’s hands rather like thunderstruck children. ‘“‘Got room on that sheet for charge number seven? Better take another, anyway, Miss Codd. Charge number seven: wilfully and maliciously run- ning down foe Cook, wrecking his new wagon and ruining his turnip crop. Total damage—including the damage to his feel- ings, I take it from what he said—total damage, one thousand dollars!” “Man!” breathed Wilbur Farnham. “That Cook person was on the wrong side of the road, for one thing, and for another bow” The constable sneered mightily. “They’re always on the wrong side of the road,” said he. ‘‘Got that all jotted down, Miss Codd? Charge number eight, then: carrying concealed weapons. ‘That only goes against the man.” “Say! I have a permit for that, at least!” Mr. Farnham cried hopefully. “With you?” the constable inquired, and his disappointment showed plainly. “No, it is at home, but—” “Charge number eight: carrying con- cealed weapons without no permit!” yawned Thornton Hill. And then, his information appearing to be right up to the minute, he continued briskly: ‘‘Charge number nine; stealing one set of license numbers from Nathaniel Briscoe’s car, the same standing in his barn at the time. Nat telephoned in about that around ten o’clock and I see the same num- bers is on this car outside. Got charge number nine?” “Yes! Is they many more, Thornton?” Miss Codd wanted to know. The constable relaxed condescendingly, for the heavy part of his night’s routine was over. “Nope, just one more,” he said simply. “Charge number ten: burglary!” _ The pen scratched on, while the constable, with a keen eye on the desperate twain, ex- amined his pistol pensively. It would have been proper, of course, for Mr. Farnham, amused and angered, to break into impassioned speech at this point, searing the loutish Thornton Hill with his words, battering down his imbecile charges 6A AWAY FR@M THOMPSON. 273 and reducing the law’s representative’ to an apologetic pulp. Yet it was bitter fact that Mr. Farnham could not even have asked for a match just then without stammering and jumbling his words. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; his dumfounded eyes merely stared at the constable and his gaping assistant— and now the constable laughed cynically. “T ain’t going to stay around here after my term runs out next year, Miss Codd; I’m going down to New York and git on the detective force,” he said modestly. “I got a—I dunno just what to call it. It’s a sort of gift, I guess. I just knew these two was going to» hit Batesford before morning, somehow! When that car stopped out in front 0’ my house, I was up and dressing before I was wide awake.” “Law!” said Miss Codd. “Yes, ma’am!” nodded Thornton Hill. ‘IT was over t’that window before my eyes was open, and thar they stood, large as life and twice as natural, without no lights, right out in the middle of our street!” ‘And you follored-’em here an’ caught ’em!” the lady breathed admiringly. ‘Yes, ma’am—but it wasn’t no trick at that,” smiled the law; and then, abandon- ing the bouquet bombardment of himself, he turned sternly to the prisoners. ‘Well, I guess I done enough for one night. I'll lock you two up and go home.” Wilbur Farnham’s voice returned. ‘You needn’t do that!” he said eagerly. | “We'll sit right here until—” ‘““Aw, shucks!” rasped the disgusted con- stable. ‘You'll get locked up just the same as if you was in rags, young feller—don’t make no mistake about that. Then to- morrow morning Lem/’ll be back—justice 0’ the peace, y’ know; you didn’t know you was tryin’ to rob a justice, hey?—an’ he’ll arraign ye both an’ you can plead t’ them ten charges, and then he’ll commit you t’ the county jail and we’ll take you up there and hold you for trial in the November sitting! Right out this way. You walk ahead and don’t try duckin’!” — His persuasive pistol indicated the path. Heads bowed, they moved from the little office, with the numb, insensate footsteps one uses in nightmares, out to the dark porch—but a porch dark only for a mo- ment, for Mr. Hill’s admirable flashlight blazed forth again and, curiously enough, pointed toward their car! “Right along the path past the chicken COMMICLO® S (C@)