Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 5, 1928 — page 106: what you’re looking at

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

672 An instant later they were in the car and squeezed in on one of the narrow benches that ran the length of the in- terior. Then the door clanged shut, semigloom enveloped them, and the vehicle started off with a jerk. During the ride, which, fortunately, was short, the prisoner mumbled and swore until one of the officers told him to shut up. There was no other talk. Walt found one of the girl’s hands and held on to it. The unloading at the station was as rapid as the loading had been. A jump from the patrol wagon, a few steps across the cement walk, and they were inside and facing the booking desk. Another prisoner was being at- tended to, but he was pushed aside for the time being. “Mad Max at last, hey?” was the greeting of the man behind the desk. “Fine work, boys!’ The captive broke out vehemently : “T tell you I ain’t Max Moran! I’m Pete Carson, and—” A plainclothes man had stepped up and now he interrupted: “Tl be damned! It’s Carson sure enough. What are you doing here in Chi?” He did not wait for a reply, but grinned at the men about him. “A boner, boys! The Minneapolis police picked this same bird up last week and wired us they had Max. I made a special trip up there with papers to get him, but, hell, he ain't Max any more than I am!” ““T’ll say I ain't. Chi to get a job—” “We'll just search you, anyway,” said the man who had led the raid. “You put up too big a scrap for an in- nocent guy!” The search was made, and a dozen diamond rings were brought to light. Without waste of time Carson was marked down for robbery and led away to a cell. Walt and Carolyn Bradford had entered the place with hopes flying. Now they mutely stared at each other. I come here to ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, “No reward,’ Walt said at last, to the world in general. “You're the fellow who telephoned ?” asked the man behind the blotter. When Walt nodded he smiled sym- pathetically. “No reward for Car- son, I’m sorry to say, except our thanks.” Then: “All right, Jim— let’s get through with that drunk.” Walt and the girl started for the door with reluctant feet. Behind them the routine of the station started once more. At the exit Walt halted sharply. It seemed to him that a voice back there sounded familiar. He returned and looked at the man being questioned. His heart gave a great leap. “Ed Agar!” he yelled. Ed Agar, of Bridge Point, Missouri, it was—an Ed Agar in the most com- plete state of ossification. “ Doggone,” Mr. Agar said tear- fully, burying his face in Walt’s bosom. “Doggone if it ain’t Walt Wilkin- shun. Good ol’ Walt. Don’ let copsh arresh me, Walty. I got a' wife and childurn. | No—shrong—ain’t got no childurn. Anybody shays I got child- urn’sh a liar. | Walty, howsh a boy? Good old Walty! I shure—” “Know him?” inquired the officer behind the desk. = ¥ £0; -- Said. “NVA Peer aany home town. Guess he’s been celebrat- ing or something, “He was picked up for making a nuisance of himself. Don’t want to be hard on him, though, since he’s from out of town. Take him away and keep him off the streets until he’s sober.” “And take care of his money,” spoke up another policeman. “ He’s carry- ing a heavy roll. It’s a wonder some- body didn’t clean him before I found him.” Walt extracted the wad from Agar’s pocket, and his heart began to sing as he got his fingers around its lovely thickness. Then he and his two com- panions were outside. 1 6A VOOL.ES (EOLAMUCE (F@)