The Argosy, Vol. XXV, No. 1 — page 62: what you’re looking at

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

SULLIVAN JONES’ BOARDERS. How the plans of two gentlemanly rascals were neatly thwarted by a pair of clever boys.— A successful robbery followed by an equally successful capture. I. VA STE a long, shrill whistle, which echoed through the Kittatinny Gap, and a glare from its headlight that danced and glimmered far across the water and then vanished in the deep shadow of Cove Mountain, the night mail swept around the Narrows and thundered up to the little station at Dauphin. A brief pause, a pull at the bell rope, and it rushed on up the Northern Central toward Sunbury, rattling through the village street, and spitting out columns of red flame at spasmodic intervals. The station master, the telegraph operator, and half a dozen wildly dissi- pated individuals who kept late hours, came to the door of the waiting room and looked with eager curiosity at the two passengers who had just alighted. They were young men, both of them—thirty or thirty five one would say— and they did not look unlike; for each had a closely cropped yellow beard and a drooping golden mustache. They wore neat fitting suits of rough tweed and soft slouch hats, and each carried a big valise, a gun neatly cased, and a bunch of fishing rods. Sportsmen from the city evidently, and just such men as could be found every season down at Rockville or up above the Clark’s Ferry dam, where the fishing was best. But to find them at Dauphin was more of a rarity, for although the fishing is equally good the river here is dangerous and fullof peril. The two strangers paid no heed to the crowd in the doorway, and sought no information, but after a short consultation lifted their valises and started quietly down the road. | Without hesitation they crossed the Stony Creek bridge in the darkness, and pulled-up a moment later at the old tavern. It was only half past ten, but within all was dark and silent. ‘“This is the place, Jim,’’ said one of them. ‘““Ves, I believe so. We'll make sure, though.’’ He struck a match, and holding it up to the weatherbeaten sign that creaked over the entrance, he read in faded letters : STONY CREEK TAVERN. SULLIVAN JONES. J As the match died out they stepped across the porch and rapped sharply on the door. ‘Twice they repeated it, and at the third summons an upper Eomicbooks (S@)