The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 2 — page 96: what you’re looking at

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

278 “T see they didn’t, Thornton; I see they didn’t!” the perfect stranger agreed ad- miringly. “What is it, constable?” Mr. Farnham asked. ‘Why did you bring it here?” “Well, this is Mr. Chester Patterson,” the constable explained. ‘“He’s the re- porter up this way for a lot of New York papers.” “So there you are, Chester,” concluded Mr. Hill. “I promised you I’d give you first whack at interviewing the first out- side crooks we picked up here. Go ahead an’ interview ’em. I wanter get to bed.” Yawning, he stood aside. Young Mr. Patterson, having cleared his throat, nodded toward the cells. “How de do?” he said cordially. There was no response at all. The repre- sentative of the press waited a moment and glanced at Mr. Hill. “JI guess Ill have a talk with the girl first,” he remarked, “‘and see what I—” “You guess again and maybe it’ll save your life!” shot from Mr. Farnham’s cell. “Here, you!” the constable cried, with a start. “You dry up! I’m not talking to you!” retorted the male prisoner, as he pressed against the bars, breathing hard and scorch- ing Mr. Patterson with his gaze. ‘Just listen to me a minute, shrimp, and then run! I’m not going to be in this cell very long, and even if I should die here I’ve plenty of friends who would be glad to take the job after one look at you. “T don’t know how that clown came to bring you here, you nasty little runt, but I give you my solemn word of honor that if you address one solitary word to that young woman—yes, if you even look into her cell!—I’ll kill you just as sure as there is a sky above us!” He was, of course, very much over- wrought. Had he been free, it is unlikely that even in his present state Mr. Farnham would have done more than shaken Mr. Patterson until his teeth rattled and snarled at him until sheer fright rendered him un- conscious. But he made a fearsome picture, never- theless, as he clutched the bars of his cell and shook them, his face white as snow and his eyes burning like hot coals. “Holy Moses!” murmured Chester Pat- terson. “Don’t you—don’t you take no account THE ARGOSY. of his ravings!” the constable counseled rather hoarsely. “He can’t get loose. You go ahead and interview ’em!”’ For the most minute fraction of a sec- ond Mr. Patterson’s eye met Mr. Farn- ham’s. “Thornton, I don’t want to!” he said flatly. “I don’t believe it would be worth a cusS aS an interview, anyway. They wouldn’t tell the truth about anything and —and—no, sir, it wouldn’t be worth while.” The constable also had been studying Mr. Farnham. “Just as you say, Chester,” he remarked readily. ‘“You know more about interview- ing than I do. Come on home, then.” He started briskly for the door and Mr. Patterson followed with no hesitation what- ever. Near the entrance, however, the rep- resentative of the press paused to mop his high forehead. “Thornton,” he said softly, “that girl isn’t a crook!” “Well, when you know as much about her as I do—” the constable began dryly. ‘She isn’t a crook—or if she is, she’s one of these real society crooks,” the other said stubbornly. “I got one good look at her face, just when we came in, before she covered up her head with that cloak!” ‘“‘“And I suppose you’re so bright you can just take one look and tell all about ’em, hey?” Mr. Hill chuckled. ‘‘Mebbe so.”’ “It isn’t that!” the press persisted. “I’ve seen her picture!” “Where?” “tm trying to think, but I’ve seen it— and I’ve seen it within a month at that,” Mr. Patterson said. “Seems to me it was in a magazine. Yessir, it was in a magazine, Thornton, and I’ve got that magazine some- where in my room, among a thousand or so of them!” “T don’t believe it,” the constable af- firmed. “Well, I know it. And J’ll find that magazine between now and sunrise and youll know a lot more about your prisoners than you do now!” the other cried, excited- ly. “Yes, siree! It’s that girl and it isn’t any other girl in the world! She was sitting astraddle of a little horse and she had one of these polo clubs in her hand.” “Well, if that’s so—”’ “Tt’s so, Thornton!” said Chester Pat- terson. “‘And her name’s under the picture, and it isn’t Fenwick, either. I can’t for the life of me think what it is, but it isn’t Fen- CORMMICLOOOKS (C@