Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 129: what you’re looking at

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

THE PRISONER. Sargent had seen the whole thing from the window of his office. He had watched the porter start blithely up the road without thought of danger—were not all men his friends? He had seen the sudden rush of the crowd, and in imagination he could see Tony’s perennial grin change to a look of surprise and, as he realized their purpose, to terror. Then, even as he turned to run back they swept over him like a pack of wolves over a fallen doe, kicking, stamping, striking—mad with the lust of blood. It was only a minute before the guards reached him, but the thing they carried to Sargent’s office bore little resemblance to humanity. Once the other side was brought home to him when, as he was leaving the mess car, a wild-eyed disordered woman, evading the guards, dashed through the gates, shriek- ing in Polish, and threw at his feet the dead body of a child. It needed no autopsy to reveal the cause of death; starvation was written plainly in the pinched face. ‘She says you take her man, you take the child, too,” translated a man near him. ‘ She’s the woman of the Polack you sent up for assault last week.” It was of these things he was thinking— these, and a letter he had that day received from Elinor, when there came a knock at the door and an old man entered. He had been a night watchman, a pensioner practically, before the strike, and had been allowed to remain, being of little value one way or the other. ‘ Are yer goin’ ter try ter git out by th’ little gate t’-night?” he asked. Sargent looked up startled. Very few knew of his intention. “How did you know that?” he asked sharply. For answer the old man handed him a crumpled piece of paper. “Tt’s from me darter,’ he explained. “ She sint it down by little Dick wid me dinner pail.” It was short: Tell the boss not to try to get out by the little gate to-night. Some of the boys is on and will be laying for him te fix him for good. For some time Sargent stared at it; then he tossed it on his desk and nodded te the old watchman. 735 “All right,” he said shortly. “ Much obliged. Here,” he added, thrusting a ten- dollar bill into the man’s willing palm, “ give this to your daughter.” For half an hour after the old man had gone he paced slowly up and down, deep in thought. Then as though he had suddenly come to a determination, he walked briskly to the telephone. “Tl fix ’em, damn ’em!” he muttered as he took down the receiver and called up the Associated Press in New York. ‘“‘ Hello!” he called. “ This is Sargent— James Sargent, of the Eastern Manufactur- ing Company; I wish you would announce for me that this plant is shut down for good —yes, for good. I am going to move the whole thing—lock, stock and barrel—to Vermont. Yes, Vermont. Never mind where—1I’ll announce that later. Good-by!” And he hung up the receiver. Sargent waited until the Associated Press had called him and verified the message he had sent, then he deliberately disconnected the wires. “Now let them howl—the weak-kneed fools!” he growled, and putting on a long fur-lined overcoat and a fur cap, he went out to wander around the deserted yard. It began to snow, and the soft flakes soon covered the grimy buildings with a mantle of white, but Sargent, absorbed in his own bitter thoughts, did not notice it. It was dark when he finally returned to the office and threw himself wearily on his cot. But he could not rest, and in a mo- ment he arose, switched on the lights, and fell to pacing the room with short, nervous strides, A knock at the door aroused him, and two men entered, leading a third. “ Here’s a feller as says he’s your brother,” said one. “All right. You needn’t hold him,” snapped Sargent irritably. ‘‘ He won’t hurt me.” “‘ Well?” he asked as the door closed be- hind the guards. “In Heaven’s name what does that state- ment you gave out mean, Jim?” cried Wal- ter excitedly. COMmMicloooks (CO)