Argosy All-Story Weekly, January 21, 1922 — page 81: what you’re looking at

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

SHELBY’S HEAD-ON CRASH. “Oh, no, I’m just a common laborer,” he answered. ‘“‘ Come in from the country last week.” He saw her eyes go to his clothing. ‘I been workin’ in the street department,” he hurried on. ‘‘ Laid off this mornin’. Got to get something else.” “ Well, all you got to do is to go over and get a job,” she said. “Thanks,” he said. Pulling his cap over his eyes and taking his bucket in his hand, he went into the street. The policeman was not in sight. Crossing the street he entered the yard of the nearest factory. A crew of men, most- ly foreigners, were working in the yard. One man stood apart. Shelby judged him to be the foreman. He walked up to this man. ‘“‘' Want any help?” he asked. “‘ Laborer?” the foreman asked. Shelby nodded. “ Put up your bucket and take hold.” He congratulated himself on the amaz- ing simplicity of the proceeding. This was the last place in the world the police would come seeking the man in blue, he was sure. Before the day was done he was grateful for the muscles hardened by exercise. The work was arduous, and the foreman no easy taskmaster. At noon Shelby had to go to the restau- rant for his dinner, because there was none in the bucket. Nobody paid any attention to him. That night he sought out one of the crew, an American, and asked to be taken to the man’s‘ boarding-house. The man said he was married himself, but he could tell him where to go. On the way to the house he spent Sweeney’s ten dollars for a suit of clothes and a shirt. They were cheap and ill-fitting. His room was a cubby-hole with one win- dow, but as soon as he had finished his supper he went to it with the evening paper, There was a long story in this about Thorn- ton’s murder, but there were few new facts. The police still sought the man in blue. They had followed a number of clues, but they had not found the man. Shelby rose and stood before the bat- tered glass of his mirror. Certamly he did not at all resemble the trim brass-pounder 71 whom the police were seeking. The red stubble was thick on his face now, and the face seemed thinner and pale. He be- lieved he could pass the police as he stood. At any rate, he decided to try. He would not risk his new suit yet. Wrapping the dinner-bucket in a news- paper, he passed down the stairs. He gained ‘the street without being seen. He walked swiftly down the street, and as soon as he came to the tracks he tore the paper from the bucket. With the bucket in his hand he felt more secure. It was his badge of re- spectability. He crossed the tracks and came to a group of stores. One of them was a drug- store. He turned into it. The clerk behind the counter hardly glanced at him. ‘‘ Could T use your phone?” Shelby asked. The clerk jerked his head in the direction of the booth. Shelby entered the booth and found Silent Simpson’s number in the book. A moment later Simpson’s voice came to him over the phone. Shelby was not without his sense of drama and he waited for the exclamation of surprise which he expected from Simp- son when he should disclose his identity. “ This.is S. Understand?” he said. “ Yes,” said Simpson quietly. “ You know who I mean?” Shelby asked, surprised by Simpson’s lack of surprise. “Yes. Where are you now?” Shelby told him. “ There is a saloon two doors from where you are,’ Simpson said. “Go there. I'll be there in ten minutes.” | Shelby ‘left the drug-store and went into the saloon. There was a row of tables along the wall and he sat down at one of these. In ten minutes Simpson came through the door. Simpson went to the bar and ordered a bottle of beer. In the mirror back of the bar he encountered Shelby’s gaze. He picked up the bottle of beer and carried it over to the table at which Shelby sat. He dropped into a chair across from Shelby. ‘What were you and Ethel Sutherland talking about last night?” he asked in a low voice. Shelby stared at him. He had expected a volley of questions about himself, comicloool C©