Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 2 — page 135: what you’re looking at

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

A TIGHT one trouser leg was torn from the hip down. The skin was gone in places, he could feel the biting air on the exposed flesh. - “My God!” he breathed. “ Marvelous it’s not worse!” Gritting his teeth and feeling his way, he brought up at the door opening into the basement. He got it to move, then, after dragging himself up the three or four feet, he managed to stand up straight. He groped his way to the stairway lead- ing above, and a moment later shut the gate of the elevator; and pressed the button, but without response. He then proceeded slow- ly and painfully up the stairway, reasoning that there was someone in the building, and the condition of the elevator demanded at- tention. He neared the fourth floor and hung in a bend of the stairs, too sore and exhausted for the moment to go further. Laughter greeted him, hollow and mirthless; he crept up the few remaining steps and listened; a path of light crossed from Ernshaw & Sad- dler’s entrance to the elevator. Again, the sepulchral notes and the words: “ Hell! Who cares?”’ The voice was familiar, he tip-toed along and peered through the crack in the door. ‘““ Soused to the eyebrows! Ha, ha! It’s a joke! x The figure of thé watcher, like a Jean and hungry animal, straightened—his eye glued on the loose, heavily set figure of a man in a chair, with one leg thrown over its arm and in his left hand a glass of whisky, filled and spilling. On a desk at his elbow was a bottle and a revolver. Laughter echoed again, interrupted as the liquor emptied itself. The man lowered the glass only to drop it, the splintering fragments ringing through the silence that preceded his words: “Who are you?” It was a harsh whisper. “ Druce—John Druce.”’ The drunkard’s flesh had turned a sickly purple. ‘““ Where the—how the blazes did you get here?” he stammered, his leg slipping off the arm of the chair, his hand groping over the desk. “Up the. stairs; work!” the elevator won’t CORNER. 285 With a side glance the intoxicated man took in the top of the desk, his figure then sank perceptibly. ‘Where is it—?” he asked. “ My gun!” “ Safe!” Druce assured him, tapping his coat pocket. “ Give it to me! >? There was a plaint in the voice. The other shook his head. “How dare you?” demanded the drunkard, attempting to achieve dignity. “ Guess I’d better get a line on the police, or call up your home, Mr. Saddler—”’ Druce advised. ‘ Preposterous—preposterous!”’ repeated Saddler, truly alarmed. ‘ You’re too im- petuous—far too impetuous!” his mouth hanging with heavy jowls. Druce simply shook his head. ‘What the blazes ’s your game, any- how?” blurted Saddler thickly, ‘‘ Money?” The young fellow’s eyes brightened, Money meant food and warmth—the heat of the room alone reminded him of com- fort. He did not answer. ““You’ve seen my hand—what’s your price?” There was a veiled sneer in the ut- terance. : The incongruity of the situation tickled Druce. What extremes! He _ himself, kicked by fate like a mangy dog and hang- ing to the threads of an existence, and Sad- dler well fixed, and bloated, eager to shuffle off. He had read the man aright; he was bent on suicide. Druce’s front underwent a change, his brows narrowed, his nostrils broadened, and his lips gave a nervous twitch. The drink- sodden Saddler tipped forward in anticipa- tion. “You fired me once,” Druce exploded. “Tf you didn’t,” he corrected, “‘ your part- ner did!” The thought seemed to burn in his mind. *“ Reckoned I swiped some fixtures—the damned crook! Didn’t he short-change Rosatti from Man Mateo? And I told him of it! ‘That’s why he stuck the knife into me! Wasn't straight enough to can me without a damned lie! No!” he thundered. ‘““T wouldn’t take your dirty money to tip you into hell! Nor would I beg the smell of an oil rag from you!” (EO) oOOLK (C@)