The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 150: what you’re looking at

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

136 talkin’ to me. Breath, I may go so far as to say, you'll be needin’ pretty badly in an hour or two.” Grinding his teeth, Lewis turned away. Then his lips parted. He turned slowly on the other. “What was that you—’ he hesi- tated, staring at the fat man with wide eyes. “What are you going to do with me, anyway?” ‘“T guess the safest thing,” the other replied, between two yawns—“ the safest thing for Brady and me will be to put you out of the way. I been thinkin’ it over, and that’s the way I size the case. What's that old line? ‘Dead men tell no tales ’—” The reporter sucked in his breath. “You wouldn’t,” he faltered—* you couldn’t murder me in cold blood, for no more provocation than that I hap- pened to be an innocent listener to a piece of business—oh, come, man, you —you're only trying to throw a scare into me so I won’t give you away when you let me out of here, aren’t you? ”’ “You ain’t goin’ to get out,” stolid- ly announced Pete. “ This ain’t no kid- din’-bee, old top. I’m sorry fer you, but you gotter take old Dr. Colt’s fav’rite prescription of six doses of lead—it’s comin’ to you. Me and Brady, we can’t afford to let nobody get the goods on us. You oughter be willin’ to see that. So you gotta pass in your chips—”’ “And you'll pay the penalty for it in the chair, both of you! ” Lewis cried. “Think of that—stop and think of the consequences. Don’t you know you won't be able to get away with any- thing like this? You'll be caught, sure as you're sitting there. Why, when my b-body is found, as of course it will be—”’ ‘““ No—that’s a buin guess. It wom't be found, bo; not a trace of it. None of your friends’ll know you was croaked. They’ll think you disap- peared, that’s all. That’ll be easy to fix. There’s a guy we know over in the town we come from that makes a busi- ness of gettin’ rid of such stiffs as the THE ARGOSY. gang turns over, from time to time— he’s a reg’lar artist at it: Don’t you go to frettin’ none about any harm com- in’ to me and Brady. IVe’ll be all right. Rest easy about that.” Lewis accepted the fat man’s invita- tion to be seated now. He dropped down on the side of the bed, his limbs rigid. This was awful. To die like a caged rat, here in this squalid room. As soon as Brady came back—why, torture, then, was likely to accompany his decease, the reporter realized. Brady would be in a sweet mood when he returned from the fool's chase on which Lewis had sent him. He would probably want to attend to the latter’s finish personally. Lewis was utterly helpless. Without the free use of his hands, and unarmed, what chance did he stand of grappling with the fat man sitting opposite, knocking him out, and bolting through the door of that room—the room that had now becomie his death-cell? Not a ghost of a show on earth. It was all up with him. At that moment Pete sat up straight in his chair. He held his head on one side in an intently listening attitude. From the street below floated up a peculiar, quavering whistle. The fat man rose. “ Brady!” said he. Swiftly he crossed to the room’s one window. He parted the drawn shade a crack,-peering down into the street. Evidently he was unable to see his con- federate. A second time the whistle was repeated—imperatively now, it seemed. Pete rolled up the shade. He lifted the sash, and popped out his head. And Lewis, who had risen from the bed like a cat, knew that here was his chance. Creeping forward, his manacled hands upraised, ready to deal the fat man a blow on the back of his head with the steel bracelets, he drew up be- hind the unconscious rascal. “That you, Pete?” he heard a hoarse whisper from below as he came within arm’s reach of the fat man. CoOMmicbook CO