Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 22: what you’re looking at

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

oe if they wanted to find Captain Jake adly. As for himself, he was not sure | Jake had gone there. If he could » been fooled about Washington, Emile = Boston. At any rate, the whole business “Vii tell you the truth,” he said. _ “That’s it—now we are getting a bit of _ breeze in our canvas.” __ “ He’s in Boston.” “ That’s it—that’s it. How soon can you get him back to New York?” “How soon! Say, I’ve told you where he is; now go after him yourself.” “Nothing doing, Mr. Chink-nail. We don’t do business that way. We got to . stay right here under the coconut tree. Lis- ten, we gives you three days to bring him back to New York. Three days, mind you, and if you don’t deliver this dog-eared skip- per by that time, we shoots the Cracker Pot so full of holes it Il look like a starry night.” With this ultimatum, they all arose and walked toward the barroom, while Connors remained seated at the table. At the door they paused and the juggling sailor collected the three guns; one from each of his companions. Following this he motioned for them to stand aside. Then with his right hand he began to juggle iy with the three weapons—tossing them in } the air, and catching them as easy 4s if they were wooden balls. As Connors watched the sailor did some- thing which startled him, although he was more or less familiar with the work of pro- fessional jugglers. on ‘Jn rapid succession, without disturbing the order of the revolving guns, he had 1 each one as it came to his hand, send- each bullet with a crash against Eddie yon’s musical gong, and when the last nad been fired all three guns were ng through the air, whirling about smoke. t struck the bell clanged. “ Three,” was Connors’s prompt reply. Right—one for each day. Three of a in which to produce this skunk of a cap- ain. Here he bestowed a grin of confidence on his villainous-looking companions, after which they walked out of the Cracker Pot. Connors remained seated at the table for some time. He thought that there might be some trick involved, and momentarily ex- pected their return. Not until Emile’s face appeared at the door did he move. “What did I tell you?” his bartender questioned with brazen effrontery. Had Connors followed his inclinations at that particular moment, be would have licked his bartender, and it is reasonable to assume that the job would have redounded to his credit, as his nerves were a bit ragged. However, wisdom prevailed. He arose and went to the door where Emile stood. “Did you ever read the lives of any of the big captains of industry?” he asked, ey- ing Emile menacingly. “* Certainly.” “Well, all them fellows made big for- tunes by minding their own business. Beat it—I’ll ring a bell when I want you.” Then he pushed him through the door- way, after which he locked the door. Again he seated himself at the table, and tried to catch some dangling thread of thought that would help to unravel the fast- tangling mass of mysterious events. Finally he went behind the platform and rapped on the trapdoor. ‘‘ Come up, Eddie,” he called in low tones. The negro promptly responded to the call. “Did you hear any shooting?” asked Connors. “ Syre—somebody was bustin’ lead on mah musical gong,’ was Carbon’s reply. “ Eddie, I want to ask you an important question. Did you have a sailor on board Jake’s schooner who could juggle with knives and things?” “Sure—they was all jugglers on board the Bessie Bowles. Sword swallowers, wif beans on ’em. That’s all.” “ Nobody on board that could do any fancy work? You know—” Connors illus- - comicbooks.com