A PISTOL AND A PUNCTURE
Having, by soft speech, won his way out of that parlous plight, Mr.
Connors was still wearily trudging the abandoned roads of the vicinity
in search of succor. His own state of mind was not joyous. Thanks to
Mr. Copewell’s wedding funds the financial phase of the case had been
satisfactorily adjusted, but he was still anchored by responsibility
until the man whom Fate had thrust upon him could be transferred to
other and competent hands. And he was anchored, too close for safety,
to the reform-infested city of Mercerville.
With these drear reflections he tramped along until he came upon
another road. It seemed a somewhat more traveled way than the one he
had left. Possibly it was the almost abandoned stage-road which in
ancient days had linked Perryville with the east.
Mr. Connors extracted from his pocket a five-cent piece. Prior to the
rifling of Mr. Copewell’s wallet it had been the only buffer between
himself and destitution. He could go but one way at once. Heads should
guide him east, tails west. Tails it was.
A turn in the highway brought him upon quick discovery. Confronting
him at some distance glared twin eyes of bright light, throwing broad,
luminous shafts along the road. “Oh, me mother!” ejaculated Mr.
Connors in astonishment. “If it ain’t a benzine-buggy!”
Caution being the very soul-breath of Mr. Rat Connors’ policy, he did
not approach the stationary motor-car conspicuously by the center of
the road. Instead, he dropped into the deep shadow of over-hanging
trees and made his way forward with the noiselessness of an Indian on
a war-trail. He meant to see what manner of person piloted the car
before he presented his demand for first aid to the injured. He
advanced on his toes.
The automobile was empty. One of its tail-lights had been removed and
placed on the ground. There it blinked, lighting the work of a
solitary man who knelt on a folded robe, swearing—also mending a
punctured tire. This man was coatless, smeared with grease, covered
with dust and panting laboriously. His profanity was voluminous and
capable as he struggled with the task of replacing an outer casing on
a jacked-up wheel.
Mr. Connors did not at once emerge from the shadow. He knew that this
car could not possibly proceed until that tire was replaced and
inflated. He meant to ask a favor, and asking a favor carried with it
a certain obligation to reciprocate. Mr. Connors had an idea that
pumping up the tire of an automobile which looked like a baby
battle-ship would involve a distasteful element of manual labor. The
evening was hot and, on the whole, it might be as well not to
interrupt this gentleman until he was through.
It pleased Mr. Connors to discover, after a careful reconnoiter, that
the gentleman was absolutely alone. If he proved obdurate, and a
gun-play became necessary, one man would cause less trouble than
several. The frayed condition of the gentleman’s temper indicated that
he might prove obdurate.
Mr. Connors cautiously drew his “cannister” from his pocket and tested
trigger and hammer. If the lone wayfarer quietly accepted the charge
of the “guy wid de busted slat” there need be no friction. If he
lacked that large sympathy which should make him a willing rescuer,
then he must have philanthropy thrust upon him. Mr. Connors meant to
thrust it with the pistol. So he gave thanks that this was not a
party, nor a couple, but only an unaccompanied chauffeur.
When the injured man should be safely stowed in the tonneau the
trusteeship of Mr. Connors would terminate.
Then what? Life has its business exigencies even for those of us who
are not materialists. Men who tour in motor-cars may be assumed to
carry money. Why not first impress the gentleman into service and then
relieve him of his valuables? Why should the doctrine of socialism
apply as to the man who lay wounded and not as to this one who drove
an automobile?
The man in the road rose with a sigh of relief. He stretched himself,
adjusted the pump and bent to his labor again. Mr. Connors sat
watching. At last that too was done. The lone motorist put away his
tools and turned wearily. Apparently the sight of the car fatigued
him.
As he did this Mr. Connors stepped out of the shadow and placed the
muzzle of his revolver in impressive juxtaposition with the
gentleman’s face. The gentleman had fancied himself alone. The
discovery that he had been mistaken surprised him. It startled him.
“Let’s see you stretch your arms up high,” suggested Mr. Connors. The
gentleman obligingly and promptly followed the suggestion.
“What is this, if I may ask?” he inquired. “Highway robbery?”
“Some of it is,” Mr. Connors assured him pleasantly, “an’ some of it’s
ambulance service.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you,” admitted the traveler.
“Dat’s all right. You will foller me in about t’ree minutes,” replied
Mr. Connors. “But before dat let’s see w’at youse got in yer clothes.”
* * * * *
The motorist offered no verbal protest. When one looks down a
gun-barrel at one A. M. in a lonely road, silence is eighteen karat
fine. This highwayman was carefully keeping a position just too far
away for a clinch. At that distance the pistol gave him priority of
rank and entitled him to issue orders.
“Get over dere in de light an’ turn your pockets out!” directed Mr.
Connors. “T’row everyt’ing down here by me feet. If youse got a gun in
yer clothes I wants ter see it come out wid the muzzle pointed de oder
way! See?”
The gentleman saw. “I haven’t a gun,” he said.
“An’,” pursued Mr. Connors succinctly, “let’s be on de level wid each
oder. Don’t let’s have no holdin’ back. I wants ter see de linin’s of
dem pockets hangin’ outside. You looks prettier dat way.”
For a moment there was complete silence, while pocket contents
showered on the grass at Mr. Connors’ feet. Mr. Connors secured for
himself the gentleman’s coat, which hung over the tonneau door.
There is a distinction between tribute-levy and vandalism. Mr. Connors
left letters and papers undisturbed, taking only currency and articles
of intrinsic value.
Then, as they stood, with Mr. Connors unostentatiously in the shadow
and the other gentleman in the full glare of the acetylene lamps,
hands high and his pockets inverted, they heard a somewhat startled
exclamation in the road. A young woman emerged suddenly from behind
the car, carrying a bucket of water. The tableau had not greeted her
eyes until she reached a point where the screening framework ceased to
screen. Then it appeared to interest her greatly.
“Lady,” said Mr. Connors steadily, the pistol muzzle never wavering,
“or ladies an’ gents, if dere’s a bunch of youse—please come round
here an’ get in line an’ put your hands up. If anybody makes a false
move, I croaks dis gent, an’ dat goes, see?”
The lady came forward and took up her station by the side of the man.
In order to raise her hands she had to set down the canvas bucket with
which she was burdened.
Standing in the acetylene spotlight the young woman struck Mr. Connors
as supremely beautiful. He deplored the necessity of keeping her in a
prisoner’s attitude and he admired the calm with which she endured the
compulsion. Her eyes even seemed to be dancing a trifle as she looked
at the somewhat abject Mr. Burrow.
“Please, Mr. Highwayman,” she naïvely requested, “would you mind if I
poured some water into the radiator?” She added reassuringly: “It will
keep both hands quite busy. The machine can’t go on until we do that,
you know, and we’d like to get home—when you are entirely through with
us.”
Mr. Connors considered the proposition.
“Go as far as yer like, lady,” he assented at last. “But let dis gent
keep close ernuff fer me ter watch youse both. If his hands comes
down, I’m afraid I’ll have to hurt somebody, see?”
As the young woman lifted the full bucket with a surprising strength
for such slender arms, the gentleman assured her that he regretted his
inability to assist. The young lady laughed.
“Dat will be about all fer dis part of de job,” said Mr. Connors. “Now
fer the ambulance.”
“The what?” questioned the young woman.
“I’se sorry ter trouble yer, lady,” apologized Mr. Connors, “but it’s
like dis: Dere’s a guy up de railroad track w’at’s got a busted slat.
I’se got ter borrow your benzine-buggy ter take him ter a doctor.”
“Now see here, you infernal pirate!” The gentleman took one
belligerent step forward and halted abruptly as he recognized how
close it brought him to the ominous muzzle. “You’re asking too much!”
“Me?” questioned Mr. Connors in an injured tone. “I ain’t askin’
nothin’. I’m tellin’ yer w’at I wants done, an’ yer don’t need ter git
fresh about it, see?”
“Is there really an injured man? Is this true?” asked the lady.
Evidently she was willing to be reasonable.
“Honest ter Gawd, lady!” Mr. Connors spoke earnestly and his eyes wore
their frankest appeal. “Dis guy is liable ter croak if he don’t git a
doctor. He’s a pore skate. Meself, I don’t know him personally, but
I’se sorry fer him.”
“Some disreputable drunk!” growled the gentleman savagely. “Some
contemptible hobo like this man here.”
“It occurs to me,” suggested the young woman in a level voice, “that
up to this point you have been very obedient to this person you call a
contemptible hobo. At all events I’m not going to leave an injured man
by the roadside. I’m going with this person. Do you care to come
along?”
“Oh, he’ll come along all right,” Mr. Connors assured her. “I needs
him ter run de car.”
* * * * *
The gentleman’s face went white with anger; then, as he turned his
eyes on Mr. Connors, his expression grew quizzical, even amused, and a
light of sudden recognition came to his pupils.
“Mr. Rat Connors,” he said with deliberate courtesy of address, “I
congratulate myself that I have fallen under the bow and spear of so
distinguished a crook as yourself. I retract the ‘contemptible hobo.’
I have just recognized you.”
“Mr. High-Brow Reformer Burrow,” replied Mr. Connors with instant
promptness, “t’anks fer dem kind woids.”
“May I inquire,” purred Mr. Burrow, “how you knew me?”
“After you, after you!” returned the young gentleman modestly. “How
did yer git hep ter me?”
“You see,” explained the Honorable Alexander suavely, “the Chief of
Police was speaking of you this morning. He had a good deal to say
about you.”
Mr. Connors grinned, as one whose greatness has been duly recognized.
“Will yer give me best ter de Chief? Will yer tell ’im I’m well an’
doin’ business an’ I hopes he’s de same?”
“I shall be honored to do so,” declared the Honorable Alexander
gravely. “I shall also look forward with pleasure to a meeting when
all three of us shall be present—you, the Chief and I. But you haven’t
told me how you came to recognize me.”
Mr. Connors smiled broadly.
“Yer name was printed in gold letters on yer pocket-book—an’ I kin
read.”
“Oh,” murmured Mr. Burrow.
Mr. Connors waved his weapon with a gesture of energy.
“Let’s beat it,” he suggested. “Dis busted-up guy’s liable ter git
homesick.”