Adventure, January 20, 1922 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

Men of the Night The men exchanged glances, and jouy made a gesture of dispair. “His name?” she demanded without tack ing around—just addressed the question to the air and expected an answer. Billy the Dude answered perkily: ‘Son 0’ the Devil—Son f’r short, or may- be Devil. ’Cordin’ as how youse feel.” “Ah, my brother,’ she said, snuggling her cheek against the hairy head, and bab- bling half-whispered nonsense to the animal. At the door Jerry whispered to Billy the Dude: “No good’s coming from this. what I telf you. Tve got a feeling And Billy the Dude was not listening. He interrupted to say: “T’d give a couple o’ legs to be dat dog— right now. OQOoo-boy!” Jerry groaned and vanished. When she stood up the dog raised its eyes admiringly; and when with her distinctive air of assurance she went to a big chair before the low-burning fireplace the dog followed and dropped at her feet. Billy hastened to take a chunk of wood from the brass-embossed woodbox and throw it onto the coals, which he stirred up briskly. She watched his motions, rather than him, through eyes narrowed sleepily; then, removing her sacque, tossed it care- lessly over the back of the chair, poked a caressing toe under the Son of the Devil’s jaw, and, glancing at Billy as if he wore a bellboy’s uniform, said— “Will you hand me something to read— please?” She accompanied the “please” with a glance, brief as an accent, that thrilled him clear to the botton of his toes. She was a woman, all silk and fire, as aware of her charm as a snake of its fangs. “Sure. W’at’d youse like?’’ Billy asked in eagerness. “Anything. I do not like to read any- thing. Print is tiresome.” “Youse said it! Books give me a pain. But him—say, he sleeps wit’ ’em!”’ Smilingly she was poking the tip of a small foot into the long, cavelike mouth of the dog, but she shot a quick glance out of the corners of her eyes at the reference to “him.”’ - “Where is he now, do you know?” She asked it enticingly, her voice soft as the purr of a sleepy Persian, yet tantalizing him with the suggestion that perhaps he, Mark 95 Billy, was of insufficient importance to be informed. It happened that Billy did know. The impulse was to tell what he knew; but after all in some ways he was a wise hombre, which is vastly different from being a wise guy; so he answered: “He don’t say where he’s goin’. takes de big gray bus an’ goes.” “By himself?” “Sure,” Billy lied. She sat up, erect as a queen on a throne, faced Blly with abrupt directness and threw the question— “Do you know the word’s been passed to kill him?” “Him!” “Ves, han,” Billy the Dude lost about three inches in height as he almost imperceptibly settled down on himself in a kind of crouch. His smiling, smooth face was slightly distorted with a sneer; and, throwing out a hand palm down, almost level with his knee, he said: “°Fore anybody croaks him, dere’s some ot’er guys dey wants to get first, an’ I’m one Gf “erm, “Seer” She was unimpressed. Scowls, hard ex- pressions, threats, menace, were as familiar as toilet omtments. She was very young, but knew that all men were liars and most of them boasted. | “Where,” she asked with complete de- tachment, “is that magazine you were get- ting for me? One with pictures. Thank you.” _ She dropped it on to her lap, crossed her legs, leaned hand to cheek and idly turned the pages. Billy, frozen out, smoked meditatively, got himself a magazine, put it away, stared at her, examined her critically, and finally went into the next room where Jerry Peete gloomily paced back and forth on the thick rug. He jus’ Vil Meee A BIG gray limousine swung with ae slow dignity around the corner of asia the deserted street and bore down to the entrance of the Wellington-Dane. It was a powerful, nearly noiseless car with a motor that purred like a huge cat and cord tires thick as an elephant’s leg; and it paused at the curb, the engine throbbing like a quiet heart. NOOK = a (C@ (C@