Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 18, 1925 — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

THE DUKE OF DISDAIN. The door to this cell was of steel and had an orifice only large enough to permit a man’s head to be wormed through it, or a pan of food passed in. It had a huge lock and, in addition, was protected by two huge hinged bars at top and bottom, which were padlocked to enor- mous staples firmly set into the old divid- ing walls of the pre-Revolutionary block- house. There were two windows in the thick out- side walls affording light and air. They were crisscrossed by three separate sets of steel bars, also cemented into the an- cient wall of limestone. Noble Howard bade him be of good cheer and told him that he would see him the following morning not only about his case, but also to arrange certain details of Mr. Fitch’s business. A man of affairs cannot be entirely withdrawn from his usual avoca- tions, even on the ugly accusation of mur- der, without some adjustments of his former activities, such as signing payrolls and the like. Noble Howard cut the Gordian knot by preparing, that night, a blanket power of attorney for his client, that the various details could go on, uninterrupted by Mr. Fitch's imprisonment. ‘“Mrs. Avery will send you up a good supper,” said Sheriff Butts, as he aided his son-in-law to buckle the prisoner in for the night. ‘‘ Meals such as you are accustomed to will be extra, you know.”’ ‘ All right,” said Mr. Fitch apathetically. ‘“ Anything else?” “You can have all the newspapers and books you want,” leered Mr. Butts, think- ing of how the Times had ‘ panned him ”’ during the last campaign. ‘Send me in the local and city papers and some magazines,” said Mr. Fitch mechanically. ‘‘ How about soap and towels and water?” Mr. Butts chortled: valet. Hey, Pancake!” From the frowsy and dingy steel lined corridor appeared a stocky figure, clad in a sleeveless old gray woolen shirt, whose sinewry arms were grotesquely tattooed. The fellow had a serio-comic face, freck- led, with sparse sandy hair, but his strong nose and dominant chin gave it the lie. The “ll give you a 203 neck was that of a gladiator, the round head seemed designed to receive blows, and bore several ugly scars. But his eyes were posi- tively merry, for one in jail, and they danced in rhythm to the flickering gas jet above the door of Mr. Fitch’s cell. “This is Pancake Hearn,” said Mr. Butts. ‘ He’s the runner for the boys in here. He'll get you anything that you want, and he’ll be reasonable about tips, won’t you, Pancake?” “I’m always reasonable when in stir,” smiled Pancake. ‘“ Yessir, I’m on the job. How long you in for?” Mr. Butts said the evening papers would give details of Mr. Fitch’s case. He in- terpreted the latter’s perfunctory assent for — “some nice Jamb chops, sliced tomatoes, French fried potatoes, biscuits and coffee, with fresh peaches for dessert,” as an order, _ and disappeared with his jailer son-in-law down the stairs. ** Well,” observed Pancake Hearn in a husky but confidential tone, after carefully noting the clang of the locking doors at the foot of the stairway, “ we meet again. Dis is a funny woild. Just a week ago, I’m standin’, takin’ the air out in front of the post office in this happy little city, watchin’ the poor push-cart men at their honest but humble woik, and who goes by but youse in a limmyseen. ‘And then who comes up but Lieutenant Overton in plain clothes. He makes me mugg. He runs me in. He ain’t got a thing more on me than they probably got on youse. But here we both are—hey?”’ His droll air and the acute sense of need- ed comradeship in his new environment rather appealed to Mr. Fitch. For the first time his look of high disdain faded out. The ghost of a smile flitted about his lips. ‘‘ What are you in for?” he queried. Oh, they got enough lined up agin me— on paper—to make the devil go off in the woods for a cry of jealousy,” explained Pancake. “ But when they get all through wid their papers, they can go and take a jump through their own hat-bands, for all of me. I ain’t worrying. Dey say that I blowed your safe a year ago, down at the mills. But we’re friends just the same, ain’t we?” COPMICL OOO KS (E@)