Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 3 — page 70: what you’re looking at

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

380 human intelligence. glares at Flanagan. ‘Why don’t you pay what you owe?” he bawls. ‘“T don’t owe nothin’!” says Flanagan. ‘“‘ Wipe that smile off’n your face!” barks the boss. “ All right; court’s open. What’s this man charged with, officer?”’ he asks me. “ Defraudin’ and swindlin’ Feinstein & Reilly out of near five hundred bucks’ worth of furniture.” “Oh!” shrieks the boss. “ Terrible! What’s your name?” he asks Flanagan. i Flanagan—Michael P. Flanagan,” says our prisoner, still grinnin’. “ Have you anything to say before sen- tence is pronounced on you?” roars the boss. “Sentence!” exclaims Flanagan. ‘Silence in the court!” yells the boss, potndin’ on his desk. ‘“ Have you anything to say?” he roars again. “ Well, mister—” begins Flanagan. “ T ordered silence in the court!” the boss yells at him. “‘ Detective Conner,” he says to me, “this man has refused to pay what he owes?” “He has, judge, but—” “ Take him away!” barks the i, “Away!” I gasp. “ Where?” ‘Put him behind the bars!” “ Aw, say, judge—give him a chance, won’t you?” “ He’s had his chance. Take him away!” “Gee, judge,” I beg, désperate, “can’t you let this guy think it over? Maybe if you reason with him—”’ “He can think it over in jail!” snaps the boss. “ Take him away!” The grin has never left Flanagan’s face. “Well,” he says to me, ‘‘ ye’ve heard what the judge said.” “Don’t give up hope,” I whisper to him. ‘I may be able to fix it yet. Gimme some dough, can’t you, you boob? Then it Il be all right.” “ Nothin’ stirrin’!” says he. “The devil!” I tell him. ‘“ I don’t want to take you to jail.” “T know dummed well ye don’t!” he laughs. “You're the first guy I ever seen that wanted to go behind the bars.” “T guess I am a queer one,” he admits. He whirls around and THE ARGOSY. “Well, officer,” he says, holding out his mitts as though for handcuffs, ‘do your duty!” “* Judge,’* I say to the boss, “‘ I like this —this prisoner. I don’t want to see him in the cooler. Maybe,” I suggest, “if I pay a couple of bucks on his account you'll let him—” “No!” screams the boss. “I’ve give him his sentence—kale or jail!” “ But, judge—”’ “Take him away!” commands the boss. “Tf you don’t, I hold you for comtempt of court.” ‘** Couldn’t you let this guy out on bail?”’ T ask. “I put up enough dough—” “No! Unless he pays what he owes him- self, he sleeps in a cell to-night.” “Say!” It’s Flanagan talkin’ now. “It’s nice of ye,” he tells me, “ to try and get me out of this scrape, but I guess ye can’t do nuthin’ with the judge. Take me to jail as he says.” I start to edge toward the door. I’d have made it, too, and ducked .out, except for Flanagan. The big guy grabs me by the arm. ““Goin’?” he asks me. “ All right; I’m ready. Good-by, judge,” he says to the boss. “Tf you change your mind about payin’ before you reach the lockup,” says the boss, “give the money to Officer Conner.” “TT will,” promises Flanagan; “if I change me mind.” When we get to the street I speak to Flanagan real serious. “Flanagan,” I say, “ as I’ve said before, I like you. I think you’re a good feller and I hate to see you in trouble. I’m goin’ to let you go home,” I tell him. “ I ain’t goin’ to take you to jail. Ill take a chance on you. see you again, and maybe then you’ll have some money to give me. I'l walk you over to the subway, and then you can—” ‘“ Nothin’ doin’!” says Flanagan. “ I’ve been ordered to jail, and to jail I’m goin’. I think I can beat this case,” he tells me. “Some other judge may not be as hard on me as the old guy up-stairs.” “ Well,” I say, “ there’s no use of us goin’ to jail yet. Let’s take a walk.” What I was lookin’ for was a place with EO) OOOKS AUG In a week or so I'll drop around to (C@