The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 137: what you’re looking at

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

FLIRTING WITH DESPERATE HAZARD. “Oh,” he said, in a lower tone, nod- ding inquiringly first at the man who had prodded him, then at the stout per- son opposite. ‘‘ Silence is the game, ehe Musn’t talk for fear of the driver—” The fat man laughed. There was nothing said any more for the space of a full minute or two. Only the creaking of the ancient cab, the rumble of the wheels and trot of the hoofs of the horse disturbed the hush of the vehicle’s interior—that hush that seemed strangely tense to Lewis, as he sat peering through the gloom at the shadowy faces of his companions. The frown on his forehead deepened. “Look here!” he blurted out at length. “‘ I want to be in on this. Seems to me I ought not to be kept in the dark, when all that’s needed is a word or two to let me know where we're bound, why I mustn’t talk now, and, above all, why I’ve got to keep these asinine bracelets on my wrists any longer—”’ He stopped short. ‘* Now you keep your trap shut,” said the man beside him, suddenly pushing the muzzle of his pistol hard against the reporter’s ribs. ‘“ Shut you face, or —maybe we can make you!”’ Cold all over, Lewis sat perfectly mo- tionless. Something was wrong here. Something was decidedly wrong, for what kind of a way was this for res- cuers to act. ““ When I tell Brennant,” the re- porter exclaimed in a vehement whis- per, ““how you've treated me, my friends, I imagine you'll sweat—” > A nudge or two of the gun-point hushed him. “Cut it out!’ warned his seatmate. “Don’t try to throw no scare into us, bo. We don’t care nothin’ about this Brennant friend of yours—whoever he is.” “The city editor of the Meteor,” Lewis began, his eyes widening in sur- prise. “Never heard of him,” shrugged the other. 123 Lewis whipped around. “You—you never heard—”’ The pistol jumped viciously against the middle of his vest. The man be- side him leaned forward, looking him narrowly in the eve. “ Make another move like that!’ he hissed. His baleful gaze riveted the reporter into gaping fixity on the seat. “I'd put a pill into you quick as look. Goin’ to behave, are you? You'd bet- ter. Naw, we never heard of Bren- nant—Brennant, the editor on the Me- teor. And, what’s more, we don’t want to hear nothin’ about him—see? All we want out of you is to keep a still tongue in your head till you get to where you're goin’. And. then—well, then, maybe, we'll hear what you've got to say!” Lewis sat around straight on the seat. He was looking squarely at the fat man, who now sat, a somewhat bored _look on his features, with his pistol in his lap, its point trained in the vicinity of the reporter’s upper left-hand vest- pocket. And distinctly Lewis could feel the muzzle of the other’s gun press- ing into his side. These—these men were utter stran- gers to the situation. They didn’t know Brennant. They weren't emissaries sent by the editor, at all. And, more than everything else, it was entirely plain from their present attitude that they were not by any means friendly to him, the man they had saved from the hands of the police by their daring, broad-day hold-up. Friendly to him? Lewis stared at the fat man guarding him with his gun, while he felt the weapon of the other touching his side. Well, no; one would hardly call this a little reunion of stanch comrades. Then why had he been taken away from the two officers of the law by these men? What in the mischief, any- way, was their game? Had Lewis, at that moment, known the answer to that perplexing ques- tion, beyond a doubt he would have braved the two guns under whose muz- oO COMmMiclhoo S CO