The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

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СКАЧАТЬ a Krupp. An’ that’s the last I ever see or either the Duck or Liz. I never sees Robinson, nor hear of him, neither. He’s a game sport an’ a good loser, I’ll say that for him. Ain’t he? What?”

      The young man in the striped suit nodded, grinning. The man with the horn-glasses looked very thoughtful, very grave. A little silence fell in the smoking-compartment, while from the engine sounded a long whistle, announcing an approaching stop.

      “Great stuff!” suddenly exclaimed the young man, with enthusiasm, as he slapped his knee. “That’s the best put-over I ever heard, in the boat line!” He turned to the man in the horn glasses. “Well, what d’you think of it? You don’t seem to fall for it very strong, do you?”

      “No, I don’t,” answered the man in the horn spectacles. “As a matter of fact, I’m Robinson!”

      III.

      The man with the pompadour stared vacantly. His jaw dropped.

      “Good night!” he cried. “You?”

      “I have that honor, sir.”

      “Go on! You ain’t the guy that the wise duck bought Liz for?”

      The gentleman with the horn glasses drew out his card-case, looked it through, chose a card and presented it.

      “At your service,” he answered.

      He of the pompadour read:

      WILLIAM F. ROBINSON

      Attorney-at-Law

      27 Pearl St., Boston

      For a moment, the blankest silence fell that had ever permeated that smoking-compartment. Then Pompadour gulped, wiping his brow with a tremulous hand:

      “Good night! I—I sure spilled the beans that time!”

      “The beans, sir, are certainly spilled,” answered Horn Glasses. “The entire pot-full. And that is not all. Now that I know the complete inside story of the infamous fraud perpetrated on me, the same consti­tuting a clear case of obtaining money un­der false pretenses, I call on you to make complete restitution, or suffer the conse­quences!” His eyes were severe, through the big glasses. Impressively he tapped the leather-covered arm of the divan. “The car is worthless, absolutely and entirely worthless. Junk, indeed, and nothing else. I was obliged to sell her for such. I re­ceived but forty-five dollars for her. Your story, sir, has been heard by witness. Do you wish to settle with me privately, or would you rather have me take the matter into court?”

      “I—I guess I’d rather settle, but—”

      “Very well, sir. The sum of one hundred and twenty dollars will liquidate your indebtedness.”

      “But I—I ain’t got that much on me!”

      “How much have you, sir?”

      “Ninety-two, sixty!”

      “Very well. I will be reasonable. I will accept ninety dollars in complete set­tlement of all claims. Otherwise—well, matters must take their course.”

      Jimmy Dill passed a hand up over his pompadour, then, re­signing himself to the inevitable, pulled out his billfold and paid up. Horn Spectacles very gravely pocket­ed the money. Then, as the brakes began to grit,; he reached for his suitcase; stood up; and putting on his hat, left the car.

      Dill, in a collapse against the cushions, feebly shook his head.

      “Can you beat it?” he whispered husk­ily. “Goodnight! Can—you—beat—it?”

      IV.

      As the train pulled out of the little way station, Horn Spectacles stood gazing after it, with a smile.

      “Not too bad, for a casual bit of busi­ness,” said he contemplatively. “Ninety beans don’t grow on every bush, but a lit­tle ‘bush’ seems to have produced ninety. Some cinch, eh?

      “Good idea to carry a full assortment of cards, comprising all the more common names. A man in my line of high-grade confidence specialties never knows when one or the other will come in handy. Now, for instance, if I hadn’t just happened to have a card with the name ‘Robinson’ on it, this flier in junk couldn’t have been pulled across, and I’d have been out ninety.

      “I wonder who Robinson really was, though, and what happened to Liz?

      “I wonder!”

THE SILO

      Originally published in Argosy-All Story.

      I.

      The roaring of the eight horse-power gasoline-engine and of the voracious ensilage-cutter, out there in the yard, blending with the windy chatter of the cut corn as it skittered up the pipe and whirled down into the dark silo, masked the coming of Lucky Ruggles. Pownall swung up from broadcasting a shovelful of ensilage that he had dug out of the swiftly growing mound under the pipe, to find himself confronted by the man he feared and hated more than any in this world.

      Ruggles grinned, and spat tobacco. An absurd figure to be afraid of—a slouching hobo, with an old cloth cap on, a long black coat possibly stolen from some scarecrow, and torn trousers tucked into a pair of worn out high boots that a farmer’s wife had given him. A weak figure, unshaven and watery-eyed; but packed with potential dynamite for Pownall, none the less.

      “Hello, there, Powdy!” the hobo greeted the proprietor of the farm. He swaggered a little, with dirty hands deep in trouser pockets, and scuffed his boot-toes into the soft ensilage. “Glad t’ see me, ain’t you? An’ I’m sure glad t’ see you! This is my lucky mornin’. They’re all lucky mornin’s to Lucky Ruggles. That’s me!”

      Pownall could only stare, with fallen jaw. The in-whirling fodder, shot down from the curved pipe high aloft, flicked him with bits of corn-leaf and stalk. At his side, now that he had stopped shoveling, swift­ly rose the pile of chopped corn. Only unceasing toil with the shovel and with trampling feet could keep it level in the silo.

      “Well, ain’t you glad to see an ole friend like me?” demanded Ruggles, squint­ing with that evil, watery eye. This eye gladdened at sight of his victim’s fear. Not even the vague light from the hole in the roof, where the pipe came through, could mask the lines and hues of terror on Pownall’s bearded face.

      “How—how the devil did you git here?” stammered Pownall. He raised the shovel as if to strike.

      “Lay off on that rough stuff!” command­ed Ruggles, his stubbly jaw stiffening. “You ain’t never gonna hit me, see?”

      “Git outa here!”

      “When I’m damn good an’ ready! I didn’t come here to—”

      “You got no right on this here farm. Git!”

      Ruggles only laughed.

      “You got the nerve, I must say!” he gibed. “After what I’m wise to about you! Now, looka here, mister. I’m gonna have a little privut talk with you, see? We got a few minutes all to our lonesomes. СКАЧАТЬ