The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 145: what you’re looking at

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

FLIRTING WITH DESPERATE HAZARD. with the necessary breathing-space in which to recover his lost poise—‘‘a good thing for you you've got that quick-thinkin’ habit. You didn’t have more’n nineteen seconds to spare. A few more ticks of the old turnip— But I’m glad to see you decided to give in. That shows you got sense, bo. Now, come across. We’re listenin’ to you.” Indeed, there was no mistaking the fact that the reporter had their undi- vided attention. His two hosts waited for his disclosure eagerly, perched for- ward on the edges of their respective chairs, with glistening eyes and lips expectantly parted. Lewis had gathered his faculties. What he meant to do was simply to give Perkins’s whereabouts at random —naming any place at all that first caine into his mind, as the address of thé missing man. In prison, that would have served no purpose. The police, in ignorance of whether he was telling the truth or not, would have been compelled to leave him, of course, while they inves- tigated his clue. But they would have left him securely locked behind the bars—safe against their return. Here it was different. Let him tell these two rufhans that Perkins was hidden in some plausible place—not too far away; in another section of the same city, for example —and off they would dash on the false scent the next instant. Why, it was all they were waiting for to leave the room in a mad bolt—a hint of the locality in which they could find the man they were to be paid five hundred dollars for turning up at the end of the next two days. With them gone, it was going to be comparatively easy work for Lewis to get away. Doors of wood could never hold him as bars of steel might have done— “Get a wiggle onto you!” the fat man exclaimed. “ We can’t sit here all night—where’d you take this guy, huh? ” 131 Lewis met his eyes, and those of the hot-tempered Brady, with unruffled front. The lie he was about to tell them was going to be child’s play for him. Faking stories was one of the best things he did! ‘“Do either of you know where— er—”’ The reporter paused, frowning while he thought for a moment. The goal of the wild-goose chase on which he meant to despatch this precious pair would have to be at such a distance as would prevent their return to that room in any very brief period. “Where?” eagerly echoed Pete, bending forward. The other kidnaper, too, was craning half out of his chair. “Sure, sure!” he snapped impa- tiently. ‘ Where—” The reporter regarded them slowly, first one and: then the other. “Where Lake Street is?” he fin- ished. The fat man waved his hand. ‘We can find it easy enough!” said he. “Go on—what’s the number of the house, pal?” “The number,” supplied Lewis, “ is 8063. It’s a three-story flat. Brown- stone front, with a high stoop—you can’t miss it, if you count three doors down from the corner of Portland Avenue.” Pete was on his feet. The reporter scanned his face—but it was all right. There was no indication that the fat man, a stranger in the city, disbelieved him. “Ring Pratt’s bell,” Lewis went on. ‘“ You give three short rings, two long, then three short again.”’ Watching the seriously attentive faces of the couple, it was with difficulty that he restrained the impulse to add facetiously: “ And then you bite your initials in the door- knob while you recite the ‘ Gipsy’s Curse ’!” Pete whirled on Brady. “Got that?” he demanded of his confederate. 66 I’m hep,’ Pd srowléd the other. He CoOMmicbook CO