The Argosy, Vol. 82 No. 4 — page 52: what you’re looking at

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

618 expected for Tom. This was not the ter- minus of the line which he must now take to reach Tremont. If Batterson was also going to Tremont, Tom, unless he waited for another car, must travel with him. There was no car going in either direction in sight. Keeping the standing cars between him- self and the other man, Tom began study- ing the situation. He did not want Batterson to see him now. After eluding him thus far he did not want to lose such advantage as he had gained, if he had gained any. Standing at the curb was a grimy look- ing automobile, which had the appearance of a working car, and a sleepy chauffeur stood leaning against it. Tom went over to him. ‘Are you going to do anything for half an hour?” asked Tom. “YT don’t know if I ’m going to do any- thing in a week. I am to meet a fellow here at six o’clock and take him and some tools up to Larchmont. But he had some sort of colic yesterday and I don’t know whether he'll be around or not. Why? What’s it to your” “It’s that to you to drive me to Edge- wood Terrace and Grand Boulevard,” said Tom, flashing a five dollar bill before the astonished chauffeur. He proved that he was actually very much alive and wide awake. He stood up straight. “T'll be square with you, young feller,”’ he said. “I'll start. This machine ain’t none of the best, and has sulky fits when she won’t go at all. Now, if you want to take a chance, jump in.” “T’'ll take a chance,” said Tom, laughing. “Tf you break down I can always take the trolley when it comes along.” It was a heavy, lumbering old machine, and made poor headway. But no trolley overtook it, and Tom felt that his five dollars were well spent, inasmuch as he had Fanning’s check. for two thousand in his pocket, one-half of which was his own. But at West Farms something happened to the machine, and a delay followed. The chauffeur swore and worked, and between both efforts got her going again. The trolley passed them, and Tom saw Batterson sitting inside. He turned his face away to prevent the other from recog- nizing him. THE ARGOSY, At Echo Park, a small green island sur- rounded by streets, just west of Webster Avenue, the machine had another fit of sulks. “T’ll walk the rest of the way,” Tom said, getting out. “But 1 haven’t earned my money yet,” objected the chauffeur, “Yes, I think you have. You are not sure of getting back to Westchester,” Tom told him with a laugh. He started off at a brisk pace, By this time dawn had done a little more than just appear. It was gray daylight. He reached Edgewood Terrace, and stopped at the corner he was just about to turn. A man stood in front of the Kendry house, with his head thrown slightly back as though he was looking at the upper windows. ‘““Batterson!”? muttered Tom in amaze- ment, ‘‘What devilment has the .fellow got in his head anyway? Well, I’ll watch, and if he tries to get inside it’ll be good-by Batterson.” But Batterson did not seem to have any such intention. He just stood like a man enchanted, or a silly fool, and there isn’t much difference, after all, looking up at Joyce Kendry’s windows. To what purpose? The windows were open, but were hung with heavy lace cur- tains. There was no wind at this hour, and the curtains fell straight. There was no light in the room, and it was an hour when Joyce might well be supposed to be enjoying her soundest sleep. But stay—did Tom see the lace curtain on the right side move—ever so little? Probably not. After gazing fatuously for a few minutes longer Batterson mut- tered a curse and walked away. - He started in the direction of Lamartine Avenue, and Tom saw him take something from his pocket and examine it under an electric street light. Strong as had been Tom’s desire to get to bed before daylight and make his father think he had come home at a reasonable hour, it was swept aside like an idle thought at the sight of Batterson. “T’ll see what the rascal is up to,” he said to himself. ‘“‘He means mischief.” He followed Batterson, passing his own house without a look in its direction. Then the right hand lace curtain in Joyce’s window, which ad moved—just a COmMICOOOKS (C©