In the fraction of the second that he stood facing "Slim" Gray and the
two bruisers, tense and glaring, the cool self-possession he had
acquired in his training as a boxer overcame his mental confusion. With
one quick glance he saw the cold hate gleaming in "Slim's" eyes as he
stood with his back flat against the door and noticed that one of the
"bashers" wore brass knuckles on his right fist, while the other had
pulled a black-jack from his pocket.
The iron bedstead was between him and the two thugs. As one of them
started forward John stooped and grasped the empty whisky bottle on the
floor at his feet. From his crouching position he leaped toward the
window, his only avenue of escape. Louie--it was he who was armed with
the black-jack--jumped at him with a curse, his skull-crashing weapon
held back to strike a blow. Coolly, with the mental rapidity he had
developed as a boxer, John darted toward the bruiser and back. Tricked
by the feint, Louie lurched forward with a sweeping blow of the
black-jack. The momentum of the swing of his arm drew his head down and
with a quick slashing movement, like a pugilist chopping with his fist,
John crashed the bottle against Louie's temple.
The bottle shattered and Louie, blood gushing from the wound, crumpled
at his feet, John tossed away the neck of the bottle and barely had time
to side-step the onrush of the other thug, who struck viciously at him
with the fist armored with the knuckles. As they drew back John was in
the position of a boxer, standing lightly on his toes, his left hand
extended with the shoulder drawn up to protect his chin, which rested
against his collarbone, his right arm crooked back. The bed was between
him and the door, where "Slim" stood.
The "basher" swung up from the hip with his right arm, aiming for John's
face. A man who "leads," or strikes first, with his right hand, is a
target for a trained fighter. Warding off the blow by lifting his left
arm so that it caught the descending fist on the tightened muscles below
his elbow, John stepped in with a swift right-cross to his opponent's
chin. A sharp pain shot through his clenched fist and he knew he had
smashed a knuckle as it crashed against the jawbone.
His head jerking as he received John's punch, the thug reeled back,
throwing up his hand to cover his face. John rushed at him and sank his
bruised right fist into his middle. As the fist clouted against his
abdomen the bruiser grunted and, doubling over, grabbed John in his
arms. John lifted his left arm as they clenched and pushed his elbow
against the other's throat. Pulling himself out of the clinch as the
"basher's" hold weakened when the elbow pressed against his neck, John
whirled and stopped with his back against the wall. He danced lightly
from side to side to confuse the thug, who stood panting before him.
Louie, only stunned by the blow with the bottle, pulled himself to his
hands and knees. John saw that his face was smeared crimson from the cut
on his head. Realizing that the "basher" in front of him was "stalling"
for time, waiting until Louie was on his feet again John darted to one
side and seized a chair, swinging it up over his shoulder. His hand with
its broken knuckle was puffed and painful and it hurt to bend the
fingers to grasp the chair.
Louie was on his feet, poised for a leap. John threw the chair at the
"basher" before him and dashed to the other side of the room.
"I'll get him, Joe," Louie gasped, wiping the blood from his eyes and
taking a firmer grip on the black-jack. As Louie rushed at him John
seized the heavy water pitcher on a table near him and hurled it. With a
snarl on his lips, Louie ducked and the pitcher broke against the wall
behind him. Louie was smarter than Joe had been. He "led" with his left
hand and as the blow was warded off he swung the black-jack with his
right. John jerked back his head, but the club grazed his cheek, tearing
open the flesh. Before he could recover, Joe's brass knuckles crashed
against his forehead, opening another cut.
John wabbled to his feet. His brain was numbed and he was blinded by the
blood from the laceration over his eyes. Feebly he lifted his arms to
protect his head. Joe pulled his arms down from his face and Louie drew
back his black-jack for the knockout blow. As he was about to strike,
John, with the last flickering move of instinctive self-protection, sank
to the floor. With a curse, Louie lifted his foot to kick the prone
figure beneath him.
John nerved himself for the blow that was to knock him insensible. He
knew it was the end. He heard a scuffle of feet and dimly, through the
blood from his wounds he saw Louie and Joe step back from him. He shut
his eyes. They were going to kick him to death. If he could only--but
why didn't they move? Why didn't they kick him? What were they waiting
for?
Unable to believe his eyes, he saw the legs of Louie and Joe take
backward steps until they were back against the wall. Did they think he
was "out"? Were they leaving him for dead? Fascinated, he stared at the
legs of the bruisers and then he heard a voice, a voice he recognized.
"Keep 'em up," the voice commanded, coldly, evenly, "Keep 'em up. The
first one of you that tries moving gets it, understand?"
Slowly John lifted his head. It ached splittingly and lolled heavily on
his shoulders. Weakly he pressed his hand against his cut forehead,
stopping the blood from dripping over his eyes. Blinking to clear his
vision he looked around the room.
In the doorway stood Brennan, a .45 caliber army model automatic in his
hand; a very different Brennan from the reporter John knew. A Brennan
with eyes as cold as the steel of the gun he gripped; a Brennan with an
unwavering hand and a steady voice; a Brennan like the hero of the
stories he told of brave men leading forlorn-hope charges. Good old
Brennan! He had them, all right. Good old Brennan!
With their backs to the wall, their hands high above their heads, stood
"Slim" Gray, Louie and Joe, ghastly pale, staring as if they were
hypnotized at the pistol that pointed toward them.
"Drop that sap!" Brennan snapped.
The black-jack fell from Louie's upraised hand, bouncing as it hit his
shoulder and dropped to the floor.
"How badly are you hurt, Gallant?" Brennan asked, without looking away
from his three prisoners.
"I'm--I'm all right," John replied, struggling to his feet. "Good old
Brennan," he added, essaying a smile.
"Good old nothing," said Brennan. "Wrap a towel around that head of
yours and if you think you can make it, get downstairs to a phone. Get
Sweeney; he's back at central station now."
John staunched the flow of blood with a towel and, faint from the reflex
action of the blows he had endured, walked falteringly out of the room.
At the door Brennan stepped to one side to allow him to pass, but never
took his eyes from the three men with their hands above their heads.
The clerk at the corner cigar store gaped when John, the crimson stained
towel swathed about his head, walked in to the telephone. In less than a
minute he had Chief Sweeney on the wire.
"Chief, this is Gallant--John Gallant," he said.
"Yes, what is it?"
"We've got the men who beat up Murphy."
"Where?"
"In Murphy's room. Brennan is covering three of them with a gun now.
Come as fast as you can."
His strength returning gradually, John walked a little more steadily as
he hurried back to the room. Brennan and his prisoners were in the same
positions as when he left them.
"You're lucky I didn't kill you as soon as I came in," he heard Brennan
say to the three against the wall. "If Gallant had been out I would have
killed you. It's a good long stretch in San Quentin or the rope for all
of you if Murphy dies."
"Slim" and his two bruisers glared at their captor.
"I know what you're thinking," Brennan continued. "You're thinking about
rushing me. You think I could only get one of you before the other two
got me. Each of you would start right now if you were sure you weren't
the one I'd get. That's what you're thinking and if you weren't all
cowards you'd come at me. Well, why don't you try it? But before you do,
let me show you something. See that picture of Jack Johnson on the wall
over there? See how small the head is? Well, watch this."
With a jerk of his wrist he tossed the gun into the air, caught it by
the butt and the roar of a shot shook the room. He had fired a second
after the pistol was in his hand. Where Jack Johnson's head had been on
the print was a hole about the size of a five-cent piece.
"Come on, now, try rushing me," said Brennan, quietly.
"Slim," Louie and Joe, their eyes returning to Brennan from the hole in
the wall, continued to stare at him like hypnotized men.
A white, scared face showed in the doorway. It was the proprietor,
roused by the pistol shot. He was almost bowled over a few seconds later
when Sweeney, with a squad of detectives, all with guns in their hands,
burst into the room.
John saw them snap handcuffs on "Slim" and the two "bashers" and then
the room began going around and around and the figures before him began
floating up and down. There was a roaring sound in his ears and
everything went black. His knees sagging, he sank slowly to the floor.
* * *
He dreamed a dream that was half nightmare and half ecstasy before he
regained complete consciousness.
First he was in a room without doors battling alone against an endless
line of alternate Louies and Joes who vanished when he struck them. Then
he was on the floor waiting to be kicked by a pair of legs that had no
body and that tormented him by dancing a jig to the rhythm of a
sing-song rendition of "Gunga Din."
When the bodiless legs disappeared he found himself mingling in an
every-day Spring street crowd with a towel turban stained with blood, on
his head and wondering why none paid the slightest attention to him or
his strange headgear. Alma Sprockett stopped him at a corner and begged
him not to tell something he knew nothing of, and he promised her he
wouldn't tell and went on his way racking his brain to remember what she
had said to him.
A life-size photograph of Consuello came to life, stepped out of its
frame in a theater lobby and sailed through a casement window bordered
with red geraniums until it reached the top of a hill, marked with a
sign board, on which were the words, "Green and Friendly." He sat at her
feet on the hilltop and told her all the earth was servant to just the
two of them. They were supremely happy sitting there, for days and weeks
and years, until a crimson rain fell and a terrible thunder roared.
Bolts of lightning crashed all around him and a splinter from one of the
bolts was imbedded in his eye and his head began to ache, and then--
He opened his eyes. He was in a bed at the receiving hospital. Putting a
hand to his face he felt a bandage over the cut in his cheek, made by
Louie's black-jack, and gauze, held in place by strips of adhesive tape,
covering the laceration over his eyes made by Joe's brass knuckles. His
right hand was in a stiff, straight bandage, the fingers held flat by
splints. Brennan and the chief surgeon were standing at his bedside.
"Hello," he said and his voice sounded far away from him.
"Hello," said Brennan, "how are you feeling?"
"My head aches," he said.
"You'll be all right," said the surgeon. "You fainted from nervous
exhaustion and loss of blood and we brought you down here and fixed you
up. You cracked two knuckles of your right hand and you have lacerations
that we sutured on your forehead and your cheek. You can get up as soon
as you feel strong enough."
"What time is it?" he asked.
"It's a little after midnight," Brennan replied, as the surgeon left the
room.
"Tell me," he asked, "how did it happen that you got there in time to
save me?"
"I telephoned to P. Q. after dinner to tell him that I had Ben Smith's
transcript and he told me about Murphy," Brennan explained. "He told me
to find you at the receiving hospital here. When I got here they told me
you had gone to the detective bureau and at the bureau I learned that
you had gone to Murphy's room. I hurried down there and as I got near
the door of the room I heard a crash. It must have been when you threw
the water pitcher.
"Luckily I had my gun with me. I drew it and pushed open the door. As
soon as they saw me standing there with the gun in my hand they lifted
their hands above their heads and started backing up. You know the rest
of it."
"You saved my life," said John.
"If you're going to start talking like that I'll leave you right now,
understand?" said Brennan.
"What happened after I fainted?" he asked, realizing that Brennan meant
what he said.
"We took 'Slim' and the other two to the University station and locked
them up," said Brennan. "That is, Sweeney and his men took them while I
brought you here. I had Sweeney take them out to University station
because the other reporters would find out about it if we booked them at
Central station and our whole story would have been in their hands."
"There's one thing I can't understand," John said.
"What's that?" asked Brennan.
"Why didn't 'Slim' or Louie and Joe shoot me when I put up a fight?" he
asked.
"That's easy to explain," said Brennan. "They didn't try shooting
because the sound of a shot would have roused the occupants of the house
or have been heard by someone on the street. As it is, 'Slim' and the
two others have been identified as the men seen leaving the place after
Murphy was beaten up."
"And how is poor Tim?" he asked.
"There's very little hope for him," Brennan said. "They've taken him to
the Clara Barton hospital and the mayor has employed two more physicians
to stay with him and do everything they can for him."
"Has Sweeney arrested the 'Gink'?"
"No, Cummings has disappeared; can't find him anywhere?"
"What about Gibson?"
"I don't know," said Brennan. "No one has tried to find him yet.
There'll be plenty of time for that after we come out with our blast in
the first edition. And that reminds me, P. Q. is at the office now,
waiting for me. We'll work the rest of the night and have everything
ready to be set in type by seven o'clock. I'm sorry you won't be able to
help us. You had better get some rest so that you'll be strong enough to
be on your feet in the morning."
"Will you arrange to get word to my mother that I won't be able to get
home?" he asked. "Tell her that I must work all night at the office.
Don't give her any hint that I'm hurt."
"I'll arrange it," Brennan assured him, starting toward the door.
"Just a minute," said John, bringing his unbandaged hand above the
covers. Brennan stopped and, turning, saw the hand extended toward him.
"I don't care what you say, Brennan," John said, "you've got to shake
hands with me."
Brennan hesitated and then returned to the bedside, grasping John's
hand. For a moment they regarded each other silently.
"You saved my life, Brennan, and I'll never forget it," said John
slowly. "If it had not been for you I would be where Murphy is and you
know it."
"If it had not been for Murphy they would have got both of us," said
Brennan. "They went to him to try to find out who we were and I don't
believe he told them."
"How was it they returned to the room when I was there?" John asked.
"I don't know; they probably spotted you when you found Murphy; but I'm
willing to stake my life on it that Murphy was game to the last."
"Brennan," said John, "I'm beginning to think you have a little faith in
mankind after all."
Brennan smiled as he dropped John's hand.
"Perhaps I have," he said. "Now go to sleep," he added, "because there's
a great day ahead of us." He closed the door softly behind him, leaving
John alone with his thoughts.
And his thoughts were of Consuello. He wondered where she would be
during the "great day" before them when she read or learned of the
exposure of Gibson's alliance with "Gink" Cummings, of the horrible
pommeling given Murphy, of the attack upon himself. What would Gibson
say to her? What COULD he say to her? He wished that Gibson would
disappear as Brennan had told him Cummings had. If Gibson wanted to be
merciful that's what he would do, disappear, leave her to think the
worst or the best of him, as she chose.
Pondering over everything that had occurred since the first day he met
him, John concluded that Gibson's single weakness, his inability to give
up his social position when he found himself stranded financially, had
worked his ruin. That love of the "niceness of conventionality," as
Consuello had described it; that irresistible desire to live an easy
life when he should have worked to restore his family fortune; had led
him into trouble. At the moment when he was "broke," when circumstances
were such that he would be compelled to withdraw as the society man
"Gink" Cummings, scheming to seize control of the city government, had
tempted him and he had fallen. He sold himself to the boss of the
underworld and became perfidious and a puppet so that he might have
money and fame while it lasted.
How Gibson suffered by comparison with the example set by Consuello!
When the vast wealth that had once been the Carrillo's dwindled and only
the few acres of land with the old home was left, she went to work and
was loved and respected for what she had done. She had not lost caste by
her venture into worldly affairs. That was where Gibson had been
short-sighted. He had believed that he would lose standing if he was
forced to work for a living; so he took the easier way and like all
easier ways, it wrought destruction of his morals, his conscience and
his reputation.
From this retrospective philosophizing with the lesson that it taught,
John turned to dreaming of Consuello as the one he loved. His
imagination, from which he slipped the leash of worry and care, pictured
for him gloriously delightful, utterly impossible scenes--Consuello and
he on a yacht skimming the rolling waves of the ocean off Catalina,
leisurely inspecting some "gabled foreign town"; she another Princess
Patricia with "silken gowns" and "jewels for her hair," loving and
wedding him, a "commoner" like the real princess' husband, despite the
frowns of kings and queens, and settling down to rule a Graustark-like
little kingdom.
When he awoke the following morning a hospital attendant brought him his
suit, cleaned and pressed, with a new shirt and collar which, he
learned, had been left for him by Brennan. His head had ceased its
aching and after breakfast he could only feel a trace of the weakness
that had caused him to faint the night before.
As he entered the local room of the newspaper office P. Q. stopped work
to rush toward him and Brennan, looking up from his typewriter, emitted
a "rousing" cheer.