The Argosy, Christmas 1912 — page 139: what you’re looking at

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

FLIRTING WITH DESPERATE HAZARD. The fat man chuckled anew. “Pretty well.” He wagged his head facetiously at Lewis. “And how do you find yourself?” The reporter half rose from the bed. “Admitting the cleverness of your repartee,” he said, in a voice through which suppressed wrath began to be apparent, ‘‘don’t you think this is a poor time to be indulging in hreezy bandinage? ” The fat man laughed. There was very little mirth in it, however. ‘“ Ain’t gettin’ sore, are you?” he asked. | Lewis sat down. “ Oh, no. I’m having the time of my life. What in the world put the idea into your head that I’d be feeling peevish about anything?” Brady jerked his head impatiently. “Go on, Pete,” said he. ‘ Get it out of him.”’ Leisurely the fat man reached around and drew out a plug of chewing to- bacco from his pocket. He bit off a generous morsel, stowed in with mathe- matical accuracy in one corner of his cheek, replaced the wofully damaged plug, and wiped his hand lingeringly on his thigh. - “ Evidently you’ve brought me here,” suggested Lewis, “ to do something be- sides talk about our luck so far:in es- caping the doctors’ care, and such like topics of breathless interest. When- ever you get ready—” He paused politely. Crossing one leg over the other, he embraced his knee with his handcuffed hands. “Why was you bein’ pinched by them two fly-cops?”’ inquired the stout man suddenly. Lewis shot a quick look at him. ~« “So you don’t know that?” “ Didn’t say whether I did or not, did I1?—I’m askin’ you?” The reporter hesitated. “T was playing tiddledywinks with a party of friends last Sunday night and the place was raided. I tried to skip my bail. But, as bad luck would have it, I couldn’t make my getaway, so—’’ 125 Pete, shifting his quid, nodded so- berly. “Who’s indul—who’s _ kiddin’ now?” he asked calmly. “I thought you was one that didn’t care nothin’ about your little joke, at a time like this ” “Well, you asked me why—’” “And you didn’t say it was for mur- der, did you?” cut in the other man. “Well, you could have saved your breath, anyway. We knew what you was on your way for, all right, all right.” ‘“Yeah—we’'re on!” added the fat man, leaning forward. “ Dead to rights, they had you, bo—for the murder of that John S. Perkins there’s been so much yawpin’ about in the papers, both here and in St. Paul—ze know! ”’ Lewis had uncrossed his legs. He was rubbing the palms of his hands nervously together. “It was a false arrest,” he began. “They’ve got a song about that! ’’ scoffed Pete. “‘ That’s what they all say’. Why, lemme tell you. Without seein’ you between them two cops, I’d ‘a’ known in a minute, from all the de- scriptions I’ve read o’ what this sus- pect looked like, that you was the guy— known it with one eye shut!” “Well, I tell you,’ Lewis declared, “T didn’t murder that man—any more than you did!” “Hanh!” The somewhat nasal exclamation of interest with which the two greeted this announcement caine in an excited duet. They were both bending forward now, Brady having risen from his chair to lean ovef its -back. “So Perkins ain’t dead, after all? ”’ The reporter looked from one to the other. , “T’m sure,’ he answered, slowly shaking his head, “I don’t know any- thing at all about it!” “You lie!” Brady had straightened, thrusting his chair one side with a violent shove. He advanced a step, doubling his fists his brows lowering. CoOMmicbook CO