Beadle's Half Dime Library, No. 426 — page 7: what you’re looking at

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

Sam Slabsides, the Beggar-Boy Detective, «c with blood from head to foot, wasone of the Jami- son boys. Blood had oozed from a knife-wound in the side of his neck, and another in his breast, and blood was smeared upon his face and hands. His eyes were wide open and glassy, as they ered at the light, and it needed but a glance to tell at the poor fellow was dying. Depositing the lamp on a box, Sam quickly knelt beside him. **Good gracious!”’ he gasped, ‘‘it’s the feller as was goin’ to commit suicide—Frank Jamison! He went an’ did et, sure enuff.”’ A groan escaped the sufferer, and his eyes became fixed upon the beggar’s boy. “ Say! can yer talk?’ Sam demanded. The victim shook his head, and raising his hands, put them to his throat, Then he rapidly went through a series of motions with his fingers. “Oh! ye mean deaf an’ dumb alfybet, eh?’ Sam asked. An affirmative nod of the head. * Allright. I can understand, if yer go it slow.”’ The fingers worked again. This was the result: ** Thave been murdered, ** Murdered!’ Sam echoed. this you. self?”’ Wo! not uick! yun! before I die!’ was the an- swer, with the fingers, Sam quickly sprung to his feet, and darted from the barn, leaving the lamp burning. Over the fence he leaped, with the agility of a monkey, and away down the road, leading to Larch- mont, He knew there must be a farm-house not far away, and he ran like a deer torfind it. Less than a quarter of a rile on he came to one. He pounded on the door, making enough noise, litorally, to raise the dead. In a few minutes an upper window was raised, and a voice ealled out: ‘Who's there?” ‘** \y here does Frank Jamison’s folks live?” ‘**T wo houses below.”’ ‘Well, I have jest found ’im layin’ in the barn, up the road, murdered. You’d better go see to him, while I go tell his folks.” Then away darted Sam. Tae next household he alarmed, and then sped on. It with be remembered, though incidents had crowded close together, that it was not yet mid- night. When Sam reached Larchmont there was a bright light in the parlor, and music of a well-manipuirted piano floated out through the open windows, upon the night—gay, operatic airs, that should have been a funeral dirge. Sam, greatly excited, sprung over the low iron fence, thence up the lawn, onto the veranda, and without waiting for ceremony, jumped through one of the open casements, into the parlor. Judge Jamison sat in an easy-chair, smoking. Jessie, his pretty daughter, pre ided at the piano, The sudden advent of Sam Slabsides caused both to spring to their feet, with startled cries. ** Are you Jamison?” Sam breathlessly demanded. “I am Judge Jamison, sir. What do you mean by this unseemly intrusion?” ** Are ye Frank Jamison’s father?” ** Yes, yes!” “Then, come! Yer son lies murdered ean’ dyin’, in a hay-barn, up the road. I jest found im, He’s all stabbed up!” Jessie Jamison uttered a scream, and sunk to the floor in aswoon. The judge puiled a bell, then seizing his hat, cried: **Lead on, [am ready.” They hastily left Larchmont, and hurried up the road. “How did you come to find him?” the judge de- manded. “I was huntin’ up a night's snooze, an’ entered the barn, I heerd a groan, an’ on ‘vestigatin’, found im. ‘* How do you know it's my son?” ‘“See’d him vo-day, an’ talked wi’ him up at the pond,” Sam made no further statement. He was too much out of breath. When they reached the barn, several neighbors were already there, with lanterns, ‘Is he dead?” cried the judge, rushing into the building. ; “Yes, judge, he breathed his last a moment ago,” a vrizzled old farmer said. Run, quick, for help “Why, didn’t you do The judge knelt by the body, with an audible groan. his face as white as death. ‘Frank! Frank!’ be gasped, and then buried his face in his hands, and shook with emotion, But there came no answering voice, Death had stolen away the spirit of the young man. and left behind but the cbilling, lifeless clay, he eyes, wide open and glassy, gazed straight up- ward, accusingly. ; For several minutes, the judge remained kneeling, and during this time, the other spectators stood by, maintaining a grave silence. . Finally, however, the judge arose, and said: * This is terrible. It is the worst blow J have ex- erienced since the death of my wife. Who, in all his community, would have dge enough against Frank to have perpetrated this fearfu! crime.” ‘* Alas! we know not when we have enemies among us,” old farmer Norris said, with a wise shake of his head. “* When did you see Frank, last?”’ Just before dark, in Maple Lane, not far from the ay psy camp. He and ph were there, conversing together.” “Where is Ralph now?” “I do not know. He generally spends a good share of the night at R——.”’ The judge then turned to Sam Slabsides. ** Who are you, sir?’ he demanded, *“My name is Sam Slabsides.”’ “Where do you live?” “In the winter, I blacks boots, in Philymedelfy. In the summer, I travels in the country, doin’ odd jobs for my livin’.”’ * You are a tramp, then?” “*S’pose that’s w’ot big-bugs would call me.” **Do you belong to the Gypsies?”’ ““Nary! I travels on me own hook,” ‘You found my son here?”’ “Yes. I was up at an old house, ’bove here, ‘fore the rain. Intended to hang up my hat there, fer the night, but spooks skeered me out, an’ so I cum down here. The soft side o’ a hay mow struck me as bein’ a snap, an’ 1 come in the barn, an’ got on the mow.”’ ‘** Well?” ‘Well, Ilay awhile, without gittin’ asleep. Byme- by I heerd a groan—then, another ‘un. Then, I lit yonder tin lamp, which I found up at the spook- 10use, an’ I found yer son layin’ there.”’ ‘**Did he speak to you?” ** Not wi’ bis mouth. [axed him could he speak, an’ he shook bis head. Then, be sed,in deaf an’ dumb signs: ‘I’ve been murdered; run, quick, fer help!’ Then, I axed him didn’t he do it bisself. He sed ‘No! no! quick! run before I die!’ So you bet I lit out, lively.” . Le ae tell you his name was Frank Jamison?” No. “Then, how did you know it?” “Tsee’d him up by the pond, at sunset. He was goin’ in swimmin’, but he see’d me sittin’ on the fence, an’ wouldn't gom. Guess he was afraid I’d steal his shoes—but I wouldn't. We had a talk, an’ I found out his name.” The judge turned to farmer Norris. ’ Norr's, you take charge of this lad, and keep a close watch over him, till the inquest to-merrow. His testimony may be valuable. We willtake Frank home, and hold an examination, at ten, to-morrow, “Very well, sir. Bub, you come along home with me,”’ the farmer said, “All right. S’pose you'll give a feller somethin’ to eat, won't ver, fer I hain’t bin feedin’ high, sence I struck into this valley?” “Yes, you shall have all you want.” So Sam accompanied farmer Norris to his home, one of the most suhstantial in the valley. The other neighbors raised the corpse from the barn floor, and forming a strange nocturnal proces- sion, wended their way down the road, toward Larchmont, Judge Jamison stalking along in front, grim and silent. Was he thinking: ‘Well, the barrier has been removed, and there is nothing, now, to prevent my union with Dolly Denning.” If his thought did not run in such a train, he could hardly regret that the hand of the assassin had done its work, that dark nigbt; but, stern man of the world though he was, it must be that he wished those staring glassy eyes would once more sparkle with the radiant light of life! CHAPTER VII. GUYANDOTZE'S GRIP. Wits an author's privilege, we will make a slight and necessary retrogression, for all the incidents of that eventful night have not yet been chronicled. ‘Some two hours previous to Sam Slabside’s hast visit to Larchmont, the judge sat alone in his hand- some parlor. His daughter was out calling at a neighbor's, and the servants were all in their quarters at the rear of the house, The windows were open, aad. the lights burning with medium brightness, and the judge, his chin resting On one hand, appeared absorbed in a rev- eric. A man came down the dark road, and paused in front of the house. It was Gril Guyandotte, the Gypsy. His face wore a sinister expression, and his eyes gleamed cunningly. From where he had paused a good view of the in- terior of the parlor was obtainable, and Judge Jami- son could be seen sitting in his easy-chair, After satisfying bimself that che judge was alone, Guyandotte stealthily entered the lawn.stepped upon the piazza, andin a moment stood within the parlor, A low laugh on his partcaused Jamison to look up, and he immediately afterward sprung to his feet with an oath. ‘yu! he uttered. “1! Guyandotte declared. “ Don’t you dare!” This, as Jamison’s hand made a move toward his pistol-pocket fcr a weapon, Jamison desisted. He caught the gleam of some- thing silvery in the Gypsy’s hand. ‘Sit down!” Guyandotte ordered, helping himself to a chair—‘‘or first, fetch out a bottle of wine. ’Tain't often I drink wine, and when I do, I like to drink it with an oll friend, and a gentleman. This idea of tippling over a baris for common folk, you know,”’ Lennox Jamison crossed the room to a magnificent ebony cabinet, and returned with a bottle of Monte- bello and glasses, which he placed upon alittle stand he wheeled between them, Then he dropped into a chair, * Well,” he said, “ what brought you here?’ Horseflesh, wago s and fate, I suppose,” the other replied, nonchalantly. By the way, smoke!” and the judge laid a hand - ‘ . Ludo ‘ ‘ - b ve ) é . ; 3 ” a. bN ; Ditar 7 ‘\ ey > ~ Ft . P. és ss. a ab A ee pe Fae ~ s ‘ ra} ' : ~ TA = S.. = mt Ba — — ful of cigars on the table. ‘“‘They’re good—you know I always was a martyr to good weed.”’ His unwelcome guest took tne proffered cigar, at the same time remarking: ** And’ so I find you here, settled down like a lord, in fancied security.” * Why not? Is there any reason why I should not?”’ ‘* Well, that’s a matter of question. Of course. I never expected to see you again, but blundered ac- cidentally against you. Others, you know, might do the same.” **Oh! well, of course I don’t say it to frighten you. You didn’t use me and the boys quite right; still, I bear you no particular animosity.” The disagreeable expression upon Jamison’s face did not indicate that he placed much faith in the latter assertion. He took a pad of paper from his pocket, wrote upon the front page, tore it off, and handed it to Gril Guyandotte. **In conversing, refer to numbers,” he said; “ for you must be aware that 1 am not alone in this L0use,”’ > a mene regarded the paper with a peculiar Smiie, **T see!” he said, dryly. “You ought to. You have it plain enough. Now then, what reason have I to feel concerned?” ‘Well, in the first place, in our wanderings last summer, we stru k a little town in Connecticut, where Number One once:lived, and I found out that he had been back there within a couple of years, and rng out considerable more than he had known be- ore,”’ ‘The deuce!" “Yes Well, I ee up what I could, and found there was not a pleasant prospect in store for a cer- tain party, if ever found,” **Go on!” *T am high-cock-a-lorum of the Gypsies, and I sought to get on track of Number One, and by dint of luck, more than good management, suc- ceeded,” 7 Ah!” “You bet! us a queer journey, we without some tidings of of anything of the sort.” ‘And you have kept track of him todate?”’ Judge Jamison cried, excitedly. ** Yes—thiat is, until quite recently.” ** Where is he now ?” **What would you give to know?” The scowl] deepened on the judge’s face. * So, ‘hat’s your racket, isit?’’ he gritted. “If so, you’ve come to the wrong place to work it,”’ ‘*Pshaw! you talk er I never met a villain yet, but what he was suspicious.” **Sir-r-h!”’ “Oh, excuse my intimation that you were a vil- Jain. I know better. I know you to be a model gentleman, SoamI. Ostensibly a wandering Bo- hemian, I can be as fine a gentleman as ever graced a drawing-room—ay! have been, and you know it. I have not yet lost my faculty of filling old gaps, though [ve led a checkered life. Who was it, though, who gave me the position of brakeman (from whicb I was advanced to associate manager) on the great incline road, over which the passengers are nine times out of ten taken but one way—down-hill? I don’t think you would have to rack your memory much to remember.” ** Enough of this, sir!’’ Jamison cried, angrily. ‘‘I seriously doubt if the party lives, or, if living, that you know anything of him.’’ * You are welcome to your doubts.” ‘*Where is he, then? Ill give you a thousand dol- lars ‘O put me on track of him!’’ * Agreeable always to money consideration, I ac- cept the offer, But, you will have to wait a day or two, until lsend my time-tried scouts to ascertain his exact whereabouts, Calculating time, I do not think he can be more than twenty miles from here now. So, when I locate him, I shall expect my money,”’ “And you shall have it.” “Very well. I will take you at your word and act accordingly,” tty oe was a brief silence, and then the judge said: What of Two and Three?” ‘IT know nothing about them. The world has swal- lowed them up, I guess.” . a so,” was the remark that followed, grimly, “Oh, I don’t know. They were not to blame. It was a damnable deception. and I wonder you live to-day to remember it, considering that at that very time you had a trusting wife and child living,” Jamison grated his teeth. His eyes flashed fury, and he would have tried to kill the cool Gypsy opposite, but for fear of being killed himself. “T saw Four to-day, also, much to my surprise,” Gril Guyandotte went on, triumphantly. ‘* Of course I knew hel: for she has not changed. except in size. Judging from what I know of her residence, it would not be a hard matter to find Five! “Phere! don’t get mad, judge, but let your pas- sion cool off until you are in a fit condition to con- sider. Then, [I haven't a doubt vou will be Fons to agree that, if used right, I will be always aright bower, I’m back for camp, now ”’—rising—* and don't worry; we'll fix things all right—but quietly, you know. If you meet me in the camp, of course we are strangers. I suppose I might take this Monte- bello, along, eh?’ “Yes!” grufily, *‘ and this, too.” I kept on track, and though he led rospered, and I was never im, though he had no idea ‘comicbooks.com , / -' . . - ; Pant —-