Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 128: what you’re looking at

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

598 “Then just consider your trip a pre- cautionary measure, my lad.” He’ clasped me over the shoulder. “Vou’re doing me proud,” he said, “so continue the good work. By the way, your salary is credited every two weeks locally at the Brewston National Bank, so you may draw on it at any time.” I thanked him, and as we parted felt to be sure that my directions were safe in my pocket. Leaving the government building I real- ized that though the situation had been explained to me quite fully, there was a lot that had been left to my own initiative. CHAPTER XX. THE DEVIL’S FLOWER. T three o’clock the following after- noon I had completed my tiresome journey, landing on the platform of Beechwood station, an old sun-blistered boxlike structure that didn’t speak highly for the prosperity of the Valley Line. Leaving Albany our train, consisting of two ancient passenger cars that would grace “a museum, and a freight car labeled South- ern Railroad, that I bet had long been given up for lost down in Dixie, rumbled along a bumpy roadbed at the speed of a brisk walk. Any lively snail could have had time to get out of the way, and I was the picture of restlessness by the time the conductor called out my destination. I deposited my suitcase and boxes on the platform and looked about me for a sign that a train had pulled in, but of excite- ment there was none. Nor could I spy a vehicle of any description. And if there was a town of Beechwood it hadn’t lived up to optimistic hopes of growing toward the station. But as the train puttered away, swaying from side to side, I saw one human in sight. A baggage man in brown overalls was slowly gathering several bundles and a pouch of United States mail. He looked up, as I approached, with the inquisitive perk of a chipmunk. “ How far is Beechwood?” I asked. want a car for a long drive.” TF ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “Limpy will be along any minute. This is the first time No. 2 has been on schedule since they sent me here to repent of my sins. The town—what there is of it—is a right good spell west.” He flicked a finger over his shoulder. I thought it advisable to wait, for I never had much confidence in rural direc- tions. After dumping his packages in the bag- gage room and locking the door, the man displayed the usual to be expected country curiosity. “* Stranger?” “Yes,” I said shortly. “ Humph. So am I, though I’ve been here two years. ’Tain’t so bad when the summer visitors come. Sick?” He queried speculatively. 4 No.” e My abruptness didn’t please him, but he could chew on anything. “Well, all I can say is that any one must be either sick or insane who comes to Beechwood by choice. I told the same thing to four city fellows that came up here to go camping a week ago last Mon- day. They laughed fit to kill, and one of "em gave me a drink of high-proof mule.” He looked hard at my suitcase as if try- ing to materialize a bottle. “Little early for campers, isn’t it?” I asked listlessly. “Yep, that’s just what I told them, but the fellow who’d handed me the drink said if I didn’t mind my business he’d give me a different face. Can’t even be sociable these days.” My silence must have made him sure this was so, for he wagged his head dole- fully. But conversation in some folks is hard to down. “T heard all about ’em, though, from Limpy,” he said, brightening up. ‘“ They weren’t sick or crazy. Must be hiding out from John Law.” “Yes,” I said for politeness sake. “Sure, anybody who camps out by that fish forsaken Concord Lake must be want- ed for somethin’ and so seekin’ a place where they’d never be found. Or boot- leggers, waiting a shipment from Canada,” - he suggested hopefully. ‘I’m going to tip Gomichbooks (E@)