Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

THE SHANGHAIED CHERUB 67 per to scrutinize carefully the men he engaged. - “They’s Havers and Clancy from Bridgehaven outside,” he said, out of the corner of his mouth, “and they’re telling the min that the strikers’ll cut the hearts out av thim as soon as they’re landed. It's mighty likely they’ll try to put over some funny business here.” “Maybe so,” grinned the boarding- house master. “I am also a leetle to da comic myself,” “I thought I might as well tip ye off, Tom,” said the policeman, half apolo- getically, “though I’ve niver seen ye want help in yeer business. But it’s a stampede they’re after pulling on yez, if it’s nothing worse.” Tamale Tom put on his calico-sleeved waistcoat and sauntered forth to recon- noiter. Clancy, a Heavy-jowled striker’s agent, stopped in the middle of a heated harangue, expectorated carefully, and advanced up the sidewalk. His pale face was beaded with perspiration, and he gesticulated at Tom with the soft hat that he carried crumpled up in his hand. “There’s the only man that makes a profit out of it,’ he shouted to the strike breakers. “Here's you boys, going to get your crusts busted; there’s us, starv- ing for our rights down to Bridge- haven P. “You look alla same wella fed,” in- terrupted Tamale Tom. The strike breakers snickered. * “And we can starve, and youse fel- lers can get your crusts busted,’ went on Clancy fervently, “but Tom Cordoba gets his rake-off all right. It’s no pipe he’s sending you to, neither, even if you get to Bridgehaven at all. There ain’t a whole lot left of the last ship- load he sent.” His hearers received the threat with a disposition to scoff, but some of them were obviously impressed. “You think you’re sailing in the Chi- cola to-night,” added the delegate, en- couraged to a parting shot, “but you'll know more about that when the time comes. You’re not wanted in Bridge- haven, and you got no call to butt in. And you, Tom Cordoba, you'll be sorry Tamale for doing this work. It’s a long wa to New York, but maybe we can hit you as far as that.” “Maybe I hit you first,” replied Tom, advancing pleasantly. “You talka too mooch!” But a sudden shrill cry of terror pulled him up short, and he saw Clan- cy’s face change color as the delegate looked beyond him through the door of the yard. Attracted by the agitator’s eloquence, the Cherub had crept up be- hind Tamale Tom in search of enter- tainment. When he turned round in surprise, she was in full retreat up the yard, her tiny, white stockings twin- kling in terrified haste. Clancy, with dropped jaw, pointed after her. “Where'd ye get that kid, Tom Cor- doba?” he gasped, as if he had seen a specter instead of a decidedly lively little girl. “She ain’t got no right here!” “Why for no?” demanded the board- ing-house master, blankly watching the flying little figure as it disappeared into the house. Clancy viciously punched the hat that he grasped in his hand, knocked it into the road, recovered and dusted it, and placed it on his head with considerable deliberation. “Find out! It ain’t none of my busi- ness,’ he said gruffly, and turned on his heel. “You coma here make trouble some more,’ said Tamale Tom “maybe I knocka you’ block off?” Hastening to his dining room, Tom found it necessary to pull the Cherub from beneath the horsehair sofa and assure her many times that neither Clancy nor any one else would be al- lowed to take her away. When not only Tamale Tom, but Jenseri, the Swede, Manuel, the little French engineer, and half a dozen mates and carpenters of that many-tongued company had sever- ally promised to die in her defense, the Cherub consented to forget her scare and stay to dinner: She was always charmed to dine with Tamale Tom when Captain Nixon was detained by business, though she could not understand half the talk of strange genially, — connicloool< (E@)