Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 6, 1923 — page 41: what you’re looking at

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

sO TRIissis big boss himself; and her father, finding him home one night, had kicked him all the way down two long flights of stairs and onto the street. The Slapper was not offended. He knew that there was nothing personal in it. Merely O’Toole’s perfectly natural anxiety to forestall a mesalliance. In the natural course of things young Dunn would have drifted either higher or lower; have become a gentleman bootleg- ger, or an odious stool-pigeon, or, ceasing to be a mere cog in the organization, have burgeoned forth as one of its directing heads. It was mere chance rather than any act or fault of his own that turned his steps in a new and unexpected direction. He was down by the abandoned car barn the night that Iron Reedy shot and killed Joe Watts. More than that—he was the sole witness to the last act in the long and bitter rivalry of these two, both ex-gang- sters and gunmen, later prominent in mu- nicipal politics. Slapper Dunn was a partisan of neither, had no interest in the result, and no desire to testify. He lost no time in getting away from the place. Late that night in Jocko’s pool room, a furtive lounger sidled up as he was chalking his cue, and whispered a half dozen words in his ear; whereupon he nodded, finished his game, and without making any display about it, sauntered over to another joint in whose little back room he found Rhino Bennet, handy man for the big boss, who looked up when he pushed through the swinging door, motioned to a chair beside his table, and shoved across a black bottle and a sticky tumbler. “°S this way, kid,’ Rhino mumbled. “Ya gotta beat it. Now!” “Who? Me?” “Veah. You. It’s orders.” The Slapper nodded uncertainly. ‘““ Where to?” he asked. Rhino Bennet relighted his cigar. ‘T’ll come to that. A place ya never heard of. Up in the kerosene belt. Yer train leaves in one hour.” Dunn’s jaw slackened. ‘But I gotta get my duffel first!” ‘“ Nix,” Bennet denied. ‘“‘ Home is the 823 one place ya gotta lay off of. Prob'ly they’s an office man up there now, waitin’.” ‘ They got nothin’ on me!” Rhino nodded. ‘Sure. I know. But you got something—and they aims to choke it outa ya. See?” The Slapper saw at once. mention names! “Ya'll be took care of, proper. Till aiter the trial—if there is one. A hundred bucks a month. I got the first stake right in my poke, now. The rest ‘ll come by WEDLOCK! No need to reg’stered letter every thirty days. Course, va gotta have a new name tag.” “Smith?” suggested Dunn. “ Naw!” Rhino spat in disgust. ‘“ Any Stranger labeled Smith or Jones is under suspicion even in a hick town. Joe Harris. How’s that? Might be Yid, or Yank, or Limey, or plain coon. Joe Harris, of Wed- lock, Maine.” There are few so utterly destitute as to lack some little treasure, some mementos that cannot be abandoned without a pang. Slapper Dunn never left anything of in- trinsic value in his room with its broken lock. But there was a scrap book, contain- ing records of famous baseball players, pu- gilists, porch climbers, and politicians he had known, or seen in action. And there was a brilliant green necktie with yellow polka dots, a pair of easy dancing shoes, some souvenirs of race meets, a dozen cheaply effective photographs of voung girls, and a perfectly good set of brass knuckle dusters. These he could not bear to see pass out of his life forever. He explained it all to Rhino Bennet, as also that he owed two dollars rent to the Polack. “Tl square him,” Rhino promised. ‘“¢ And when it’s safe, I'll cop yer junk and shoot it on to ya by parcel post. After the dicks leave.” A trifle shamefacedly, the Slapper went on to explain how, every Saturday night— unless he was busted, or forgot it, or some- thing like that—he brought home a box of candy for the four youngest Polacks. “They'll miss it somethin’ fierce,” he said. ‘ The old man don’t earn much jack.” With perfect gravity Rhino reassured him. COmicloo® ©