Argosy and Railroad Man's Magazine — page 149: what you’re looking at

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

i FIRST NATIONAL yuh kin see the address with yer own eyes. An’ if these ain’t the streets an’ this the southwest corner, I ain’t no judge of signs of directions.” “ But, to all intents and purposes, this edifice is a bank,” demurred the professor. “Oh, let’s try it, anyway,” Doc reckless- ly cut in. The prétessor arbitrarily herded the min- ers through the door of the imposing build- ing. Their arrival was announced by the fierce hoorays of irreverent newsies outside, who evidently were looking forward to a hold-up of the cashier, looting, and gun- play. Safely inside, the professor inquired for Mr. John Truscott. The elegantly uniformed functionary re- plied without surprise or hesitation. “ Right this way, gentlemen, if you please. Mr. Truscott is expecting you.” They were trailing their: guide awkward- ly, in close file, when Jack Rogers gave a startled exclamation and halted so sudden- ly that Mandy Swatt marched up his shins. The miners ahead turned sharply. Follow- ing Jack’s frozen stare, all saw grinning at them from the receiving teller’s cage—Joe Brennan, a former bartender at the B. Burns! Dumfounded, they moved forward— only to be greeted from the paying-teller’s cage by smiling Charlie Cruse, also former bartender! After this the sight of Jenks working busily in the cashier’s sacred cubby-hole, and a glimpse through an open office door of Mr. Curry graciously shaking hands with a personage who must be at least a multimillionaire, could not surprise them into as much as the flicker of an eyelid. “What sort of a dump is this, anyhow?” demanded Mandy Swatt huskily. “What is the name of Pluto Macdon- ald’s bank?’’ Doc countered through clenched teeth. ““ Jumpin’ jinrikisha!” gasped Tiny Tim. ““T do believe this here is it.” Thirteen ‘troubled miners looked at one another, at first questioningly, then sternly. Their jaws squared. If Pluto Macdonald was to be seen, they had some- thing important to say to him before they went away. BANK OF FARO, A9L The attendant led them through a spa- cious, handsomely appointed reception- room. He gave a peculiar knock at a ‘Private’ door opposite, then ushered them in. They were met by the short nod and keen. gray eyes of a powerfully built man seated at a large, flat-topped desk in the center of the room. Six of the miners knew him well. He was Macdonald. John Truscott rose from a chair beside the financier and greeted the Dry Gulchers with an encouraging smile. Macdonald re- mained motionless. The six pioneers had time only to. note ‘ that. Macdonald’s impassive features had been scored with new lines and his hair grayed heavily. Then they were ranged, like schoolboys, on a double row of chairs at the far side of the room. Every man of the six seethed at what appeared a_ studied humiliation. Yet, strangely, they could make no articulate protest. ‘The spell of the old Macdonald— whose command they had obeyed without question—gripped them against their will. They quivered as the cold, even tones of Macdonald’s deep, authoritative voice shat- tered the tense silence: “So Mr. Truscott intimated that you might hope for a little something from the Western Mining Development Company after surrendering your claims, did he? Well, I am practically that company.” He made deliberate pause—then, with cool, impersonal detachment: “T candidly do not know what advan- tage money would be to a pack of fools who have been easy-marks all their lives.” Jack Rogers—who in time past would have died for Macdonald—snarled and reached like a flash for his concealed gun. ““Kasy, lad, easy!” cautioned Mandy Swatt, quick to forestall the crazed young miner’s desperate intention. Disregarding the scuffle, Macdonald continued impla- cably: “Gold—an untold fortune—right in your fists. A chance to use your brains and abilities! To serve some useful purpose in life, And you let it slip right through your fingers. Your existence dedicated to rif- fling bits of pasteboard and pouring alcohol commiclooolkks.conn