Highwayman No. 2 and Mr. Smithers
There was nothing for Guy and Artie to do but obey. The highwayman spoke
and acted as if he meant business. He flashed a strong pocket electric
light, illuminating the fog around them. The muzzle of the pistol had an
ominous appearance, and the better part of valor seemed to be caution.
The fellow was of medium height and build, and his voice was one of the
strangest Guy had ever heard. Later Artie described it as a “combination
of a squeak and a roar.” At first Guy believed this footpad to be the
one whom Artie had frightened a few minutes before, but the difference
in their voices convinced him otherwise.
“Perhaps they’re working together,” he concluded.
“We’ll go,” said Artie with surprising coolness, in response to the
highwayman’s command, as he stepped from the sidewalk to the pavement.
“Come on, Guy.”
The latter followed, and presently the man ordered them to halt.
“Now, spill out,” he commanded, still covering them with the light and
the pistol. “Turn all your pockets inside out.”
But the “honk” of a horn was now heard a short distance away. A motor
car was approaching.
“Get over to this side till it passes,” was the highwayman’s next
instruction.
They obeyed, and the motor went slowly by. Guy would have called for
help, but the weapon warned him to keep silence. Presently the boys were
ordered back into the middle of the street.
“Now,” continued the man, whose face could not be seen clearly because
it was behind the light; “out with your valu’bles. Jus’ drop ’em on the
pavement an’ move on. It won’t hurt me to pick ’em up. Any gentleman
ought to be willin’ to bend ’is aristycratic back once in a while, you
know.”
“You’d be a heap better off if you’d bend your back with a pick an’
shovel,” retorted Artie boldly.
“Shut your trap, sissy,” the highwayman ordered. “You don’t look as if
you ever overworked a muscle, ’cept your tongue. You better glue that up
ag’in the roof o’ your mouth when you’re in the presence of gentlemen o’
my class—you might get into trouble. But I ain’t got no more time to
waste. Pull your coats off first an’ drop ’em. I won’t take ’em away,
and if you come back here in the morning, you may find ’em ag’in.”
Guy wondered at the term “sissy” applied to his companion. It was not
light enough for the highwayman to distinguish the effeminate features
of the hotel clerk, and the latter’s voice was not girlish.
“I haven’t got any money,” declared Artie as he took off his coat and
dropped it to the pavement.
“No, I don’t suppose you have,” the footpad replied; “but I don’t want
to miss any chances. You might have a ‘tuppence’ sewed up in the lining
o’ yo’r wais’co’t, you know. Now, off with that, too.”
Meanwhile Guy had been on the alert for a favorable opportunity to make
a dash away in the fog, but the highwayman was watchful. Neither of the
boys had enough valuables on his person to make it worth while to risk
the boring of a bullet through him in order to save them.
But suddenly there was an interruption to proceedings. Without the least
warning, a hand shot out in the fog, grasped the wrist of the hand that
held the pistol, and in a twinkling the weapon was wrested away.
“Help, lads! Get ’im by the legs!”
This instruction came from the rescuer sharply and vigorously. Both boys
sprang forward to obey, but they were too late. The highwayman broke
loose and disappeared in the darkness.
“Blast the luck!” exclaimed the new arrival, picking himself up from the
pavement where he had fallen in the scuffle. “He was too slippery for
me. But my jiu-jitsu training came in good anyway,” he added as he
reached for the highwayman’s pistol, which he had dropped.
“It’s funny that gun didn’t go off when it fell,” said Artie.
“It’s too bad you didn’t keep it in your hand when you took it away from
him,” said Guy regretfully. “You could ’ave turned it on ’im, and he
wouldn’t ’a’ dared to run.”
“I didn’t want to shoot ’im,” replied the rescuer. “I wouldn’t like to
go through life without the consciousness of having killed a man.”
“Well, he ought to have a bullet in his leg anyhow,” declared Artie. “I
don’t believe in letting such fellows get off scot free.”
“I’m satisfied as it is,” volunteered Guy, who was not of a vindictive
nature. “He got a good scare an’ no money. But we haven’t thanked this
gentleman for what he did.”
“Give me a swift kick, will you, Guy?” exclaimed Artie in disgust. “I’m
ashamed o’ myself. You’ll go back to America convinced that we English
are just as slow as they say we are.”
“No danger of that,” assured Guy “You’ve shown me a pretty lively time
tonight. Is this what you meant by seeing London in a fog?”
“Not exactly, though I expected something to happen to show you what a
fog means to us.”
“That’s when most of our hold-ups occur—in a fog,” explained the
rescuer. “A highwayman is safer in one of our fogs than he would be in
your Rocky Mountains. But I must be moving along.”
“We wish to thank you for rescuing us Mister—! May we ask your name?”
“Smithers—J. C. Smithers. I’m living at the Morley hotel.”
“Why, that’s where we’re stopping—I mean I am. My friend here works
there.”
“Is that so?” returned Smithers in tone of surprise. “I’m pleased to
hear it. Where were you bound for?”
“Nowhere in particular,” replied Artie. “We were jus’ takin’ a walk.”
“Seein’ London in a fog, eh? So was I—taking a constitutional. But I
guess I’ve had enough and will go back. Come in and see me any
time—tomorrow evening if you will.”
“We surely will,” promised Guy. “We’re not likely to forget very soon
what you did for us.”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” assured Smithers modestly. “It was easy to do. I
had all the advantage. By the way, you haven’t told me your names yet.”
“Beg your pardon,” said Artie. “This is Guy Burton. He’s from the United
States. My name is Arthur Fletcher. I’m a clerk at the Morley. I think I
remember you. You came to the hotel yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Yes, you’ve got a good memory.”
The boys decided they had seen enough of London in a fog for one evening
and returned with Smithers to the hotel. As they were about to separate
in the lobby, their new acquaintance repeated his invitation to them to
call at his room the following evening.
Guy said nothing about his adventure to his mother that night. He
decided that it would make her nervous and that it would be better to
tell his story in the morning. But at the breakfast table, where he
related his experience, he found his mother possessed of more nerve than
he expected. To be sure, she was startled, but as her son had suffered
no physical injury, she took the matter coolly and advised him to go out
no more on foggy nights.
That evening Guy and Artie called at the room of Smithers. The latter
proved to be a striking combination of shrewdness, smiles and nervous
alertness. He was rather stout and his eyes were small, black and keen.
He received the boys with a warm welcome, unnecessarily warm, it seemed
to Guy.
“Awfully glad to see you lads,” he said, seizing them in turn by the
hand. “Come right in an’ make yourselves at home.”
“Making themselves at home” consisted of taking seats offered by
Smithers, who produced a box of cigars and invited his guests to help
themselves. The latter, however, not being addicted to the habit,
declined.
“Wise lads, very wise,” declared the host warmly. “Nearly everybody
smokes, but nearly everybody is foolish, too. My only regret is that I
must smoke alone tonight.”
“I use’ to smoke, but my doctor told me I mus’ quit,” explained Artie.
“He said it was likely to give me a London fog on the brain.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Smithers. “That’s a good one. I suppose he was
afraid if you got fog on the brain, you might be held up.”
“Yes, he was afraid my business ability would be held up.”
“Good! Excellent! There’s a great lesson for smokers in that. Isn’t it
so, Mr. Burton? I haven’t a doubt I’d be a millionaire if I hadn’t been
addicted to the weed. I had excellent natural business ability. As it
is, I’m only moderately well-to-do. What are your views on the subject,
Mr. Burton?”
“I’m in a funny position on the subject of smoking,” said Guy. “I don’t
believe it’s good for a fellow, and yet, I can’t believe it puts a
London fog in everybody’s brain an’ holds up his business ability. My
father smokes, and they say he’s the best business man in Ferncliffe.”
“Mebby he’d be another Baron Rothschild if he didn’t smoke,” suggested
Artie.
“Didn’t Rothschild smoke?—an’, supposing he did, what’u’d he ’a’ been if
he hadn’t?” was Guy’s logical inquiry.
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed Smithers again. “Great idea, Burton.”
“If Rothschild did smoke, he might ’a’ owned half o’ England by quittin’
before he began,” declared Artie sophistically.
“Desist, lads, desist,” implored Smithers with mock concern. “If you
produce any more such stunning logic, I won’t be able to sleep any more
until I’ve sworn off smoking. And I don’t want to do that. It’s the
chief care-killer of a bachelor.”
“Are you a bachelor?” inquired Artie, somewhat embarrassed.
“Dear me, yes. Don’t these quarters look like it—eh, Burton?”
“Then you live in London?” Artie continued.
“Certainly—I’m in business here,” looking at Guy as he spoke.
Smithers apparently did his best to make the evening pleasant for the
boys, but he seemed to be much more interested in Guy than he was in
Artie. In fact Guy told himself that the way in which the man ignored
the hotel clerk at times was extremely uncivil. They discussed the
holdup of the night before, and the rescuer produced the weapon he had
taken from the highwayman. This proved to be an old-fashioned
thumb-cock, with a five-chamber cylinder.
“Why didn’t it go off when it dropped on the pavement?” asked Guy.
“It was only half-cocked an’ couldn’t,” replied the host.
“He’s a funny highwayman,” declared Artie. “He must ’a’ wanted to get
caught.”
“Maybe he had a tender conscience and was afraid he might shoot by
accident—eh, Burton?” suggested Smithers with a smile.
As the boys were about to leave, the man extended to them a warm
invitation to call again any time he was in. Guy, however, felt
embarrassed because the hospitality seemed to be directed principally at
him.
“He’s a fine man, isn’t he?” observed Artie as they waited for an
elevator.
“Seems to be all right,” answered Guy.
“Seems to be?” exclaimed Artie reproachfully. “It’s funny you’re so cool
about it when he’s so much interested in you. You’re the one he wants to
call again.”
“That’s just what I don’t like about it. He’s a nice fellow and all
that; but it isn’t very polite for a host to give all his attention to
one when two invited callers are present.”
“You’re a queer one!” exclaimed Artie. “That didn’t bother me any.
You’re a rich man’s son, an’ I’m only a hotel clerk. That’s the reason
he was more interested in you.”
It was Guy’s turn to be astonished. He had not thought of this aspect of
the affair.
“I’m surprised at you,” he said reproachfully. “I don’t believe he
thought of such a thing. If he did, I haven’t any use for ’im.”