Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 6, 1923 — page 64: what you’re looking at

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

846 prietor; went clamming with Tucker. He carried a smart leather case stuffed with an eye-filling wardrobe, including a Scotch knickerbocker suit and pigskin brogans, and looked like a million dollars. He and Hendrie met, and he heard the latter’s pro- ject, and added some invaluable sugges- tions. Three days passed, and not by word or look had he indicated to the Slapper that his visit was anything but the quite natu- ral dropping in of an old and valued friend. Letty thought him wonderful, and Ma Tucker nearly burst with pride at his praises of her cooking. Then, on a hot afternoon, he told the Slapper that he wanted a word with him. “We'll take a turn up the road,” he said. When the roadster had swept them a mile beyond the Hendrie place, he spoke. ‘“‘ Know what I came for, Slapper?”’ “No, sir.” “You saved me from taking the high voltage. Natural that I should feel in- terested in you. A man remembers little favors like that.” “°S all right,” the Slapper mumbled. “Rhino squared me.” | “¢ A hundred berries a month. That your idea of what my neck is worth to me?” The Slapper wriggled uncomfortably. ‘Well, I wouldn’t of said nothing, any- how. You oughta know that.” Tron Reedy nodded. “IT do know it. I’ve had my eye on you a long time. Found out you was one of the few who could keep his trap closed. I can buy any other kind of service; but not that. Your kind has to be born that way.” He skillfully tooled his car in and out among the dunes. ‘“‘T came up here first of all to tell you T’m clean. No need of your sticking along here any more. And I had it in mind to take you back with me, and make you a sort of right-hand man. But now, I don’t know. You look like a new man, Slapper! Guess it agrees with you, huh?” “Sure. I’m all right.” Another period of silence, while they rounded the cape and came in sight of the lighthouse sentineling its bleak rock a half mile offshore. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. ‘That Letty girl—she thinks pretty well of you,” Reedy said unexpectedly. ‘“ Like her, don’t you?” The Slapper reddened. ‘“‘'They don’t make ’em no better!” Reedy nodded. “I know. She’s rea. Can’t remember when I’ve seen one just like her. Did you know I was born in a little place like this No? Well, I was. On the west coast of Ireland. But I’d for- got about it, mostly. Lived among imita- tions and shadows and four-flushers so long. Know why I blotted out Joe Watts?” Reedy was given to startling changes of conversation. The Slapper shook his head. “Well, let it ride that way. He’s dead. But he had it coming to him! And I’d do it over again, if I had to go to the chair. So that’s that! But I want to square you: and now that I see how things stand, I’ve changed my mind. I’m going back. I’m too old to change. Habits fixed. You know, I never lushed any. And the wom- en haven’t bothered me much. Gambled a little, but not to make money. Just for fun. Power! That’s all I want. It’s a disease. You know, Slapper, I hold five thousand votes in the hollow of my hand. Like that.” He freed his left from the big wheel, and held it out, fingers clenched. “Gives a bird a funny feeling, some- times. I walk down the avenue, and pass men I know, but who don’t know me from a yellow cat. Big ones. Millionaires. Blue bloods. Men with all sorts of backing and protection. And I could get any one of ’em croaked at an hour’s notice! Just a whispered sentence. I got all sorts in my gang, just like an army has. Killers, ex- pert electricians, doctors, crooked lawyers, all sorts. Get any kind of a job done. Have any crib in the burg cracked for me, to get a paper I need, or a chunk of ice. And when [I agree to deliver five thousand votes and there’s only four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine cast, then I know somebody’s crooked, or got himself pinched!” The Slapper listened, fascinated. This was the life! To have the power over men and property, to elect the right one and COMmMiclooe ©