Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 142: what you’re looking at

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

7T12 The squire led the way to the side door which opened into his library. He opened the door and entered ahead of the peddler, then closed it after them. He raised the lantern and looked searchingly into the fel- low’s face. “Get close_up to the fire and pull off your clothes,” he said. blankets here that ‘Il serve your turn until your things are dry.” The peddler obeyed, and was soon out of his sodden garments and squatted on the hearth rug with soft blankets draped about him. The squire resumed his slippers and his seat. The peddler’s black eyes regarded the big decanter with an intentness that could not be ignored. The squire got up with a sound between a snort and a sigh, and fetched another glass from a cupboard. He filled it and handed it to the man on the hearth. The red wine vanished in the twinkling of an eye. “What is your name?” asked the squire. The other’s black eyes glistened and his bearded lips twisted slightly. “Tt’s one thing an’ agin it’s another— but the name I was born with—that’s as good as yer own,” he replied. “ That is not the point,” said the squire icily.. “My name’s Woodhall. heared it.” Ingoldsby started, but instantly regained his attitude of calm and chill superiority. “Vou are a fool to admit it,” he said. “My memory is not defective, and I am a magistrate. It is—let me see—fourteen years since a man named Woodhall, call- ing himself Steve something-or-other, kid- naped the son of a friend of mine.” ‘“ Was it the son of yer friend?” “His adopted son—which does not les- sen the crime.” The peddler sneered. “ Little Jacob? His name was Peter when [I first knowed im. An’ he drifted away on a flood an’ was picked up by Kester. Maybe ye know that already. If ye don’t, ask Kester. Peter’s his name. But now he’s Jacob, an’ a rich man—an’ like to be richer. Jacob Kester? Hell! There ain’t no more Kester in him nor there be in yverself.”’ Maybe ye'’ve “ There are some | ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, “Are you still drunk? What are you talking about?” “IT know what I’m talkin’ about, don’t ye fret. What d’ye cal’late I took the kid away for, anyhow, that time?” “For the purpose of forcing money out of Silas Kester.” “ That’s right. But why didn’t I carry off yer little girl? Ye’re rich as Kester— an’ maybe richer. I'll tell ye. I had a tight to that kid—him they call Jacob Kester.”’ “A right? You? Are you drunk or crazy? What are you driving at? Speak out!” “ What’s all the hurry? Maybe ye know how Silas Kester come by that baby twenty- one year ago, or maybe ye don’t. I see ye do. That’s all right. ‘An’ now I'll tell ’e something Kester knows already. This here young Jacob Kester—him that’s been to college an’ all that—his name’s Peter Woodhall—an’ that’s my name, too. D’ye git it? His ma was Susan Jane Howland—an’ that was the name o’ my wife. ‘“ Beardsley Woodhall was my own pa— him what took to the woods when all the money an’ gentility was used up an’ all the thievin’ Ingoldsbys had et dirt—him that married a half-breed woman up on Gun- flint Crick. That’s me. “That’s yer fine Jacob Kester. That’s his blood—Woodhall an’ Howland an’ ‘breed! If ye think I’m lyin’, ask Silas Kester.” John Ingoldsby sat speechless, staring at the fellow on the hearth rug. He had wor- ried greatly, off and on, over the mystery of young Jacob Kester’s antecedents, and had schooled himself to accept the fact that the chances were heavily against their being distinguished—but this was worse than his worst suspicion. The murderous, outcast Woodhalls! And half-breeds! ** Tl show ’e somethin’,” said the peddler, making a long arm and pulling his steaming coat from the back of a chair. From an inner pocket he brought a packet wrapped in oiled silk and tied about with twine. He opened it and disclosed a small flat case. “I caVlated this might come in handy some day, so I kep’ it,” he said, passing it to Ingoldsby. GComichbooks (S@)