The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 2 — page 99: what you’re looking at

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

GETTING AWAY FROM THOMPSON. “Cragg!’? demanded Farnham, “did you —did you drop that certificate in here?” “Sure I did.” ‘“‘Where did you get it?” “T picked it out of your pocket before I sneaked. I lost it there in the camp when you shook me so hard that night. But the lady can have it now!” Cragg cried happily. “The lady can have it now, and—boss, will you please not talk for a while or make me talk back? This hick policeman might wake up, or something!” To some extent, at least, he had sent grateful elucidation hissing into their cells —-and he was gone again! With a great sigh, Mr. Farnham kept his light on the window, wondering, trying to deduce just what combination of circum- stances had sent Cragg, who desired noth- ing but flight from them, straight back to them an altered man. He gave it up rather promptly, for the little chauffeur had risen into sight again and something clanked softly against the heavy stone of the jail window-sill. “Douse the glim, boss!” he directed, sharply. “I can see fine without it—the moon’s coming out in a minute. They ain’t steel!” e “What?” “Psst! The bars—they might be bum steel or soft iron. I dunno which yet, but— that’s the boy! That’s the baby! Don’t shoot that light over this way now, on your life, boss!” From the window a soft, metallic clink- clink-clink came steadily. Followed after a minute a faint squeak, an odd, intermit- tent crunching and finally a chuckle from Mr. Cragg. “They’re like cheese!” said he. “What are you doing?” Mr. Farnham hissed. “Putting the big jack from the car on these bars, boss, and it ain’t going to be three minutes before I have ’em tied in knots,” the chauffeur whispered. ‘Two of ‘em’s bent double now and—say!” “Was the farmer cop lying when he said the cell keys was in there?” “Did he tell you that?” Mr. Farnham gasped. “He didn’t mean to,” the driver said im- patiently. “Are they?”’ “T think so.” “Elegant!” breathed from the window. ‘“‘Can the chatter now, boss!” 281 The clink-clink-clink went on swiftly. Divers crunchings, too, bore their own in- spiring message through the next intermin- able five minutes. And then there was a thud outside and Cragg’s excited gurgle of: “T hope the guy that stung ’em with them bars has good luck for the rest of his life—they ain’t a thing but putty. I’m coming in.” An instant the light flashed at the win- dow. And whatever Mr. Cragg’s unac- countable inaccuracies in the past, he spoke the simple truth just now. Through a maze of wonderfully curved bars, the driver’s small anatomy was worming its way into prison—and now a soft thump announced that he had attained his goal. The stunned and murky organ in Mr. Farnham’s cranium had departed. In its place now was the lively and capable brain that had served him well through so many © years, buzzing along intelligently as ever! “Right over in that corner, Cragg—to your left!”’ he whispered. ‘‘The keys are on a hook in the angle, I think, about five feet up from the floor. Do you want the light?” “You might slip it here, boss,’’ chuckled the driver. ‘‘We don’t want to lose no time now!” . His quick fingers snatched the electric lamp and were gone again, as Crageg’s light feet took him over the hard floor. A faint little jingle sounded through the prison and the shuffle was returning; and with a single brief flash to locate the keyhole, a key worked in the door of Jane’s cell, crunched, grated and turned! “Come out, lady!” the noble driver said, in an odd, choking voice. ‘Now for you, boss. This looks like it. Yes, this is it! There!” It is possible that Wilbur Farnham need not have been ashamed of the little lump which rose briefly in his throat. Keys in hand and with at least a splendid fighting chance for freedom, they stood there while all of Batesford slept—where not ten min- utes back his very soul had turned sick at the thought of sunrise. And for this they had only the hard little chauffeur to thank—and the chauffeur, by the way, was living up to his previously established reputation for eccentricity. Light shining dimly on the picture as Mr. Farnham shielded the flashlamp under his coat, the large young man stared in aston- ishment at Cragg. COMMICLO® CS (C@