MEETING BLICK IN EARNEST
"Any mail for Sarah J. Campbell?"
"I'll see, ma'am."
"Be quick, boy. I'm in a dreadful hurry."
Noll turned away from the window to consult a frame of boxes that were
alphabetically arranged.
"Maria A. Bampole, did you say, ma'am?" sounded young Terry's voice,
his face just out of sight.
"No; I didn't," snapped the woman. "Sarah J. Campbell, blockhead!"
"'Scuse me, ma'am," returned Noll politely, though heavily.
The impatient woman could hear him slowly sorting over letters.
"Nothing for Blockhead," he announced slowly, as though talking caused
him pain.
The woman threw up her hands in huge disgust.
"Sarah J. Campbell!" she insisted snappishly.
"Oh, 'scuse me, ma'am. I thought you said Blockhead."
"So I did, dunce, but I was calling you that!"
"But, you see, ma'am," drawled Noll, exasperatingly, "I ain't looking
for any mail."
"Then you'd better!" warned the woman angrily. "And look for Sarah J.
Campbell. Be lively about it, too."
Noll ran through the letters and postcards in Box C with provoking
deliberation. Then he announced, while the woman drummed impatiently on
the window ledge:
"Here's a postal from the Mason City Laundry, stating that your wash,
this week, will be delivered only on payment of your account."
"Gimme that card," screamed Miss Campbell. "I didn't ask you to read
it, booby!"
"And here's another, from Medella, dealer in false hair at Denver,
stating that your order will be shipped on the second of next month,
and----"
People waiting in the line behind began to titter, while Miss
Campbell's face turned scarlet.
"Gimme my mail, stupid!" commanded Miss Campbell irately. "And I'll
complain to the postmaster about your impudence."
Noll Terry gazed at the woman with an expression of sadly wounded
innocence.
"'Scuse me, marm, and please don't blab to the P. M. This is my first
day here. I'm new and green, yes, marm, but I'm trying to be as
obliging as I can."
"Humph!" muttered the woman. Gathering her post cards, she fled.
Lieutenant Prescott, holding one hand over his mouth, used the other to
beckon as soon as he could catch Noll's eye.
Noll went over to him, saluting, out of sight of any one at the post
office window.
"Cut out some of this comedy, Terry," begged the lieutenant in a
whisper, "or I shall laugh outright and betray myself."
Noll once more saluted gravely, then returned to his post at the
general delivery window.
All traces of the military had left Noll Terry's appearance. His khaki
uniform was hidden under the jumper and overalls that Postmaster Dent
had loaned him. Even his erect carriage had vanished. Noll now looked
as though he had been round-shouldered from the cradle. His crisp
speaking tone had given way to a drawl, and his look was stupid.
The three soldiers were alone in the general delivery room, Noll the
only one of them at any time visible.
Toward the front of the room was a door opening out on the lobby of
the post office. Behind this stood Lieutenant Prescott in uniform, but
without his sword. Over the right hip dangled a holster in which lay a
service revolver, ready for instant work.
Further down the general delivery room, on the other side of the
window, was a door opening also into the lobby. Behind this Private
Hal Overton, also in uniform, was stationed. He, too, wore a revolver
in holster over his right hip, for the bunkies, when sent into town as
orderlies, had been armed with revolvers, as is the custom in the case
of officers' orderlies in the field.
Noll's revolver lay on a little shelf out of sight under the window
ledge.
Over two hours had dragged by. There could be no telling, of course, at
what time Blick would appear, even if he came at all.
It was not long ere Noll Terry forgot Lieutenant Prescott's warning,
and again started in to have more fun with the people before the window.
This time, however, he took great pains not to let the young lieutenant
catch his eye.
Then, of a sudden came a jolt that would have made a less
self-possessed young man topple over.
A mild-eyed man of forty took his place before the window. Noll barely
glanced at the fellow until the latter inquired in a soft voice that
was almost effeminate:
"Any mail for Arthur Dade?"
But Private Terry never turned a hair.
[Illustration: Lieutenant Prescott and Private Overton Darted Into the
Fray.]
This man was bearded and surely must be Jack Blick, he of the deadly
habits.
"What name did you say?" queried Noll slowly.
Lieutenant Prescott and Hal Overton got out their revolvers in a jiffy,
each standing with hand on the knob of a door.
"Arthur Dade," repeated the mild-voiced one.
"Bade?" blundered Noll purposely. "Will you please spell it?"
"D-a-d-e, Dade, Arthur Dade," said the man before the window.
"I'll see," nodded Noll coolly. He stepped back, running through the
letters in the D box. There was a letter there, as Noll Terry knew well
enough. It had come in the mail that morning, and was postmarked at San
Francisco.
Presently Noll came back into sight with the letter, holding it out
with his left hand, while, with his right, he leaned over to replace
the other letters in D box.
"Can you reach it?" invited Noll.
The man who had given the name of Dade made the effort to reach the
letter, which was just what Noll was trying to make him do. That move
would keep one of the desperate fellow's hands away from his weapons
for a second or two.
Two doors opened like a flash. Lieutenant Prescott and Private Overton
were darting on tip-toe into the expected fray.
"Blick, get your hands up--high! Get 'em up quick, or take lead!"
ordered Lieutenant Prescott imperiously. "Don't try any tricks!"
Reaching his man at a bound, the young Army officer thrust his revolver
squarely up against the fellow's breast.
"Great Scott, mister, don't shoot!" yelled the stranger in a quavering
voice.
"Then up with your hands, Blick!"
As though in terror the stranger had sprung back two or three feet.
This was done with the quickness of a wildcat.
As a part of the same movement the desperate man threw up one foot in a
clever kick.
His heavy boot struck Lieutenant Prescott's right wrist with fearful
force, sending the pistol flying and nearly breaking the young
officer's wrist.
Private Hal Overton had started at the same instant, but he had further
to go.
Blick's right hand dropped in a twinkling to the right side pocket of
his top-coat.
Both hands now flashed into sight, each holding a revolver.
Coolly enough now, but with incredible swiftness, the stranger aimed
his left-hand weapon at Lieutenant Prescott.
At the same instant Soldier Hal leaped from behind, wrapping both his
arms around Blick's neck and dragging him swiftly backward.
Bang!
The revolver was discharged, but the bullet, owing to Blick's going
over backward, struck a wall.
Surely Blick must have possessed all the strength and ferocity of the
mountain lion.
Though Hal Overton thought he had his man headed for a crashing fall to
the floor, the fellow managed to squirm out of that clutch as though by
magic.
Then Soldier Hal found himself staring into both muzzles of the
desperate fellow's pistols.
Hal knew it was time for him to shoot, but found he was not as swift at
the game as was the justly dreaded Blick.
Bang-bang! sounded two loud reports. Two streams of fire flashed before
Private Overton's eyes.
Two bullets all but grazed the soldier boy's head on either side.
He would have been killed instantly but for Lieutenant Prescott.
That young officer, afraid to fire for fear of hitting his own man, had
jumped into the fray despite the fact that his right wrist was all but
useless.
With one flashing movement Prescott had recovered his revolver with his
left hand.
It was his sudden football tackle, learned on the gridiron at West
Point, that had seized Blick and spoiled the latter's aim.
Now, all three went down in an ugly clinch. Officer and soldier were
fighting to pin Blick's arms to his side and thus render him helpless.
Bang! bang!
Bang! bang! bang!
To Blick it was little concern whether he lived or died. If he must go
under in the fight he intended at least to do all the mischief he could.
So he fired, even while Prescott and Hal were fighting desperately to
pin his arms and spoil his aim.
Fortunately, none of these five bullets did any harm.
But the three locked together were fighting like panthers.
If Blick could but wriggle out of the clutch long enough to get either
hand free, he would stand a very good chance to kill one or both of his
assailants.
Neither the lieutenant or the soldier boy dared fire in this scrambling
clinch.
Each feared to kill the other.
Then Blick briefly got an arm free.
Bang! bang!