WHEREIN THE BAD MAN CANNOT UNDERSTAND THE GOOD MAN AND DISAPPEARS; AND A
DEAD MAN STIRS
Immediately after, Lucia came in. She saw the body of her husband, the legs
drawn up a bit, the arms stretched out, the wounded head turned so that the
blood flowing from the forehead could not be seen. Only a few moments
before, this limp, pitiful object had been speaking to her--calling her by
name. It seemed incredible that Pell was powerless now to harm her. Brute
though he had been, he gained, in this awesome instant, a strange glory, as
the dead always do. The splendor of that universal experience was suddenly
his; and, even lying there like a discarded meal-sack, he took on something
of the pomp of a cardinal who had died. Never, of course, had she respected
him more; and though she could not bring herself to shed a tear, she
looked down at the still body, huddled in a heap, and craved one more word
with him. No matter what has happened between a man and a woman; no matter
what tragic hours they have known, when the moment of separation comes,
there is always that wish to have explained a little more, to have taken a
different course in all one's previous actions. It was not that she blamed
herself; she had nothing on her conscience. But there was an instinctive
dread at meeting the certain pain of this crisis.
She could not believe that he had gone from her like this. She had read of
people being blotted out in such fashion; but that Fate should bear down
upon her household, that the lightning should strike within the borders of
her garden, seemed impossible. Like everyone else, she never dreamed that a
great tragedy could come to her. Just as we never think of ourselves as
meeting with a street accident, so she never thought of this catastrophe.
Yet there he lay, the symbol of that inexorable terror that moves through
the world.
She went over quietly to a chair near the table and sat down. She hid her
face in her hands. She did not wish to see that silent form again; yet he
had been her husband, and her place, she knew, was by his side, in death
even more than in life. How the world had changed for her in this little
hour!
She had come into the room just as Pancho was finishing his talk with
Gilbert; and she caught the force of his words. Now she heard him saying
something else.
"And now, what you say? You all 'appy, eh?"
Gilbert was still too dazed to understand. "You've killed him!" was all he
could utter.
"I 'ave," the bandit answered. "You need not thank me. It was a great
pleasure." Evidently he smiled; Lucia would not look up.
Gilbert paced the floor. "He's dead!" he kept repeating, as though to brand
the truth upon his brain. "He's dead!" He paused once and stared down again
at the body.
"He's dead, just as I say," Lopez stated. "Pedro never misses."
As though he had heard his name spoken, the ubiquitous Pedro ambled in,
slowly, and with a bored expression upon his ugly countenance.
"Azcooze, my general," he said. His chief turned. "It is ze damn ranger.
Zey is after us some more."
Lopez never turned a hair. Lucia heard him say: "It is time. I was
agspectin' zem. Ze 'osses?"
"Zey are ready," Pedro informed him.
Pancho paused and considered a moment. "Zey come from ze souse, zose
rangers?"
"_Si_," was the quick answer.
Lopez rose. "Felipe Aguilaw becomes more hefficient hevery day. I shall
make general of 'im yet. _Bueno_, we go."
"Red" had gone over and looked out of the window. Twilight had definitely
come, and the sky was a great sheet of flame. Orange, pink, purple, and
red, the clouds shifted over the face of the dying sun. A king going down
to his death could not have passed in greater glory. While men and women
fought their little battles, waged their puny quarrels, this stately
miracle occurred once more. Unmindful of the grief of mortals, the day was
about to pass into the arms of the waiting night.
"What's it all about?" "Red" asked, turning from the wonderful scene
without to the frightened people within.
"It is ze ranger what chase me some more again," smiled Lopez. He seemed
wholly unconcerned.
"Texas rangers after you?" asked "Red," startled.
"_Si!_" laughed Lopez.
"And you don't even get excited?"
"For why? It is not my habit. I give not a damn for any man." He snapped
his fingers, as though at life itself.
Two horses could be seen through the door. The men were bringing them up to
their leader. "We should take our time--is no hurry." He took his big
sombrero from the peg where he had put it long ago, and turned to Gilbert.
"Well, I go now. _Adios_, my frand."
"Wait a minute," the other tried to detain him. "You've killed him. You
wouldn't go and leave things this way, would you?"
"As I say, no trouble for me," Lopez boyishly said, and smiled, shrugging
his broad shoulders.
Gilbert was astonished. "Yes; but how about me?" he wanted to know, "You do
not think of that."
The bandit turned, amazed. "What ze matter? Are you not satisfied? You all
what you say: zit--zot--zet!" He pinched his fingers, and made a funny
little noise.
"I can't think," said Gilbert, sitting down, one hand on his forehead.
"It's all so strange, so confusing to me. The world seems to be rocking
beneath my feet. What does it all mean--this life we live for so brief a
time? What does anything mean?"
Lopez came over to him and put his hand on his shoulder affectionately.
"You Americanos so queer," he said, "For why you waste time thinking? Are
you not rich? 'Ave you not ze beautiful lady to love like 'ell yourself
personal?"
Gilbert jumped up. He thought he would go mad if this sort of thing kept
up. "Good God, man!" he cried. "After what you've done, you can talk like
that?"
"What have I done?" inquired the bandit, blandly. "Well, _what_ I done?"
Gilbert looked at him in amazement. "You killed him! That's all."
Lopez smiled. "Sure!" He let the word loiter on his tongue. He pulled it
out like so much molasses candy. "I killed him--sure. Was in ze way. What
else could I do?"
"You've put a barrier between us. We're of a different brand, a different
calibre. Don't you see?"
"Ees no way for pliz you. If I do not kill ze 'usband, ees all wrong. If I
do kill ze 'usband, ees all wrong. Say," he looked at him in confusion,
"what ze 'ell shall I do wiz ze damn 'usband, anyway?" He puckered his
brow.
"Oh, I don't know," Gilbert said in desperation. What was the use in
arguing with this barbarian? Yes, he was a barbarian--nothing else. They
were miles apart. Centuries of belief and training separated them.
"You don't know?" Lopez said. "Pretty soon you find out. It surprise you
now. But pretty damn soon when all shall go and leave you alone wiz 'er,
you shall be sensible, too--like Mexican. To live is more strong as law.
Wait and see, my frand, wait and see!" He shook his head mysteriously.
Pedro stepped forward. "Here is a pistol," he said to his master in
Spanish.
Lopez looked at him. "Ah, _gratia_, Pedro!" He took the weapon from him and
patted him on the back. Then he whispered something in his ear, handed it
back, and Pedro gave it to Gilbert.
"Ze ranger. Zey come," he said as he did so.
"_Bueno._ I go," said Lopez, and started toward the door. Then he turned to
Gilbert. "_Astuavago adios._ Maybe we will meet again, maybe no. _Quien
sabe?_" He waved his hand, gave one last look at Pell's limp form, and
cried, "_Adios!_" He was gone--vanished like a ghost.
They all were mute in the little room. They heard the hoof beats of the
horses as they galloped away. Fainter and fainter grew the sound. Then
silence. And meanwhile the great night was falling like a curtain around
them all. Through the doorway came the last beautiful beams of the sun. The
mountains were like giant sentinels, row on row, unbelievably near in the
semi-darkness. Far off, now and then, a bird could be heard calling. Soon
darkness would envelop the earth, and this day of doom would be gone
forever. Never might they see Pancho Lopez again. Gilbert would go north;
and Lucia--He could not think.
Hardy broke the silence. He came over and looked down at Pell. "We can't
touch him till the coroner gits here," he said grimly. There were, as
always, ghastly details to be attended to.
"But I better make sure," said "Red," kneeling beside the body. "Right in
the head. Not a chance." He was peering down at the gaunt face. "No, not a
chance when you get it there."
Angela, hearing something outside, had rushed to the door and looked into
the growing darkness. "I thought--What was that?" she exclaimed.
They all listened. Far off a shot could be heard--then another. But it must
have been miles away.
"Red" sprang up. "Rangers!" he cried. "They're shooting!"
"Where are they?" Hardy asked.
"In the arroyo," "Red" replied. He was at the window, looking out. "You'll
see 'em in a minute."
The sound of shots came nearer. It was as though a miniature army were
storming the section near the adobe.
Uncle Henry, sitting in the alcove, was terrified. "What's that?" came his
piercing voice.
"They see him!" cried "Red."
"Do you think they can hit him?" Angela cried.
"Red" was certain they could not. "There ain't a chance, at that range," he
said.
But Uncle Henry was not so sure. "Mebbe they might, by accident."
"Red" turned. "Accidents don't happen in Arizona--leastwise not with guns."
The horses' hoof beats came nearer. Yet in all the excitement, Lucia did
not move. She was keeping her silent place by the body of Morgan Pell. She
did not even raise her head.
"Here they come!" cried Angela, leaning out the doorway.
"Red" had gone out of the room; but he came back now. "Better get inside,"
he warned them all, definite fear in his voice. "We're in range. It's
pretty dangerous. As I said, accidents don't happen down in this country."
"But I want to see!" cried Angela, dancing with excitement now.
"Red" was distracted. "Please come in, Angela," he begged. More shots were
heard. He was frightened for everyone. He had lived too long down here not
to know the meaning of such desperate shooting. "What the h----" Two
bullets came through the window, and smashed a little mirror that hung on
the wall near the staircase. The bits of glass fell to the floor with a
loud crash.
"What's the matter?" came the terrified voice of Uncle Henry. His hands
clung to the wheels of his chair. But he did not budge it.
"Red" had not been able to dodge a shot. "Right through the hat!" he cried,
and waved his Stetson. Sure enough, a bullet had gone clean through his
headgear. Had he lifted his face a few inches higher, he would have been
shot himself.
More hoof beats. Yet Lucia never moved.
"Bullet?" asked Hardy.
"Yes," "Red" replied. "And it was spang new--this hat. Cost eighteen
dollars!" He was still looking at the tattered Stetson.
"Oh, it might have hit you!" Angela cried and embraced him.
"Told you we'd better keep inside!" "Red" said.
"You bet--until they go by," Hardy agreed.
"Red" stepped forward. "Back, everybody!" he ordered. He pushed everyone
farther back into the room, until they were all crowded in one corner.
Uncle Henry was trembling like a leaf. How he wished he had never been
brought to this strange country! Oh, for the peace of Bangor, Maine!
_There_ was a place for you! Down here it was all shooting, killing, and
desperate trouble. Having escaped one crisis, was it possible the fates
were to be so unkind as to put him in the way of another, from which there
might be no extrication? Curse the luck, anyhow. Gol darn it!
The hoof beats came nearer and nearer. There were more shots. A man
dismounted near the door. Then a man on horseback galloped up to the very
entrance of the adobe. There was a general movement without, but no one
ventured to go out and see what had happened. They could hear voices,
sharp commands, and far off one more shot. Someone cried, "Keep on after
him, boys!"
A ranger came in. He was an angular fellow, with a bushy mustache, and eyes
like a ferret. His gun was on his hip, and one hand never left it. His name
was Bradley. Gilbert knew him well. Often had he met him in the hills. He
was known as one of the best shots of all that company of men who pursued
criminals and bandits through the State, and drove them over the border.
Few escaped him; and he had a train of lieutenants who adored him. A born
fighter, a born pursuer of men, who loved his desperate life, and gloried
in his conquests. Some called him Bradley the Inexorable. He seldom missed
a shot; and God help those who came into his power.
"We're after Lopez," he said breathlessly. "Been here?" He never wasted
words.
"Yes," Hardy answered. He looked toward Pell's body.
Bradley's quick eyes followed his. "Hello! what's that? Wounded?" he asked.
"Worse--he's dead," Hardy replied.
Bradley stepped close to the still form. "Who did this? Lopez?"
"Yes," from Hardy.
"Got it in the head, eh?" the ranger went on, looking down at Pell, but
with no pity in his face. He was too accustomed to death. A man who had
been killed was just another "case" to him--one of an endless row of
corpses.
Angela came up to the table. "He's really dead?" she breathed, and clung to
"Red's" big arm.
"Who was he?" Bradley inquired.
Hardy motioned to the mute Lucia, sitting so quietly in the chair. "Her
husband. Name's Pell."
"Sorry for you, lady," said Bradley, perfunctorily, as he might have said
"Good-morning." He turned now to go. "Don't touch him till the coroner
comes," he commanded. "Mind what I say."
"But officer--" began Hardy.
"Can't stop," Bradley waved him aside. "Now we _gotter_ get him." He went
out as swiftly as he had come in. Every instant was precious. There was not
a second to be lost.
And still Lucia did not stir a muscle. It was as if she had been turned to
stone. A silence fell upon them all. "Red" sat down on the little
window-seat, his Angela beside him. Hardy tried to smoke. They could hear
the clock ticking on and on--that little clock which had heard so much as
its hands moved around the dial during the last few pregnant hours.
Suddenly Uncle Henry, who had been looking at Morgan Pell's huddled form,
cried out;
"Hey, what's comin' off?" Had the darkness deceived him?
"Red" jumped at the question. "What's the matter?" His nerves were on edge.
"He moved!" cried Uncle Henry, excited now, and rising in his chair, which
he wheeled out into the room.
"Moved!" cried "Red." "You're crazy! He's stone dead, if ever anyone was."
"I seen him--I swear I seen him!" Uncle Henry's eyes were almost popping
from his head. "Why didn't someone do something? Why didn't they see what
he saw? Oh, to be able to walk, and not sit forever like a dried mummy in
this chair!
"But how could he have moved?" "Red" exclaimed. "He's dead, I say!"
"I don't know how he could!" Uncle Henry cried, "but he did! Look at him!"
He could scarcely control himself now.
"Maybe Lopez didn't kill him after all," "Red" said, and knelt down to
examine Pell's body again.
"Now don't tell me that!" Uncle Henry yelled. "Ain't we got trouble enough
here without him comin' back?" He could have stood any calamity, it seemed,
but the return to life of this wretched Morgan Pell.
"By golly!" "Red" exclaimed, on his knees, his hand on Pell's white face.
"Was I right?" Uncle Henry said.
"Red" rose slowly. His voice was almost a whisper. "He's alive!" he
breathed.
Gilbert, who had not taken Uncle Henry's word seriously, could not doubt
"Red's" verdict.
"Alive!" he said. "Oh, it can't be!"
For the first time Lucia moved. Her lips opened. "Alive!" she managed to
say. Again the world crumbled for her.
"It was only a flesh wound," "Red" said. "The bullet just grazed his head."
Lucia looked up. She was ashen. She was older, and her eyes seemed to have
lost their fire. "He's--really--alive?" she got out. She stared down at her
husband.
"They should of shot 'im in the stomach!" Uncle Henry stated. What a mess!
What rotten luck, ran through his weary brain.
Pell's foot moved again. Then his arm went up; and slowly he rose on one
elbow, pushed away the tablecloth that touched his head, and looked about
him. He was like a man awaking from a sound slumber. He was dazed,
mystified. In the almost complete darkness, he could not distinguish faces.
"What was it? What happened?" he inquired, in a hollow voice--a voice from
the tomb!
No one answered. They were all terror-stricken.
"I can't remember," the hollow voice went on. He fell back on the floor. He
was weak from the loss of blood. "Red" lifted him up, and helped him around
the table to a chair.
Lucia's eyes never left Morgan Pell's face. Was she dreaming? Was this some
madness that had come to her? This brute come back to life! It was
unbearable, unbelievable. She could not adjust her mind to the situation.
But with true feminine instinct, she found herself leaving her chair where
she had sat so long, going to the kitchen and getting a cup of water. Then
she knew, in some strange way, that she had fetched a bowl, and a towel.
These she placed on the table. Still she looked at her husband, as though
he were a ghost--as, literally, he was. They had thought him dead--gone
forever. Now he was back among them, speaking, moving. Incredible! One hand
went to her face. She dreaded the thought of Morgan's seeing her.
It was Uncle Henry who broke the awful tension.
"You was shot!" he cried, to Pell.
The other looked at the old man in the chair. "Shot?" he said.
"Yes, and a rotten shot it was, too!" Uncle Henry was not afraid to say.
"Gol darn it all!"
The moment was too tragic for anyone to smile.
"Who shot me?" Pell asked. He was very weak. He put the towel in the bowl
of water, and pressed it to his forehead.
"A friend of mine!" cried Uncle Henry.
Gilbert glared at the old man. No one could be forgiven for a remark like
that.
"I remember, now," Pell murmured. "The bandit."
"And a gol darn nice fellow, too," Uncle Henry went on. "A little careless,
but--"
Pell looked startled. The towel fell from his hand and he looked about him.
"He's not here still!" he cried, as one just coming out of a stupor to a
full realization of his surroundings.
"No, worse luck!" Uncle Henry said.
"He's gone?" Pell said.
"The rangers came," Hardy explained.
"Texas?" from Pell.
"Yes, gol darn 'em!" Uncle Henry let out.
Lucia, who had been watching Pell's face every second, now offered him the
bowl of water with her own hands, and drew closer to him. She picked up the
towel that had fallen to the table, and folded it, then dampened it. Pell
looked up and saw her for the first time.
"Oh, so there you are, my dear!" was his cynical greeting.
Lucia still stared at him. "I thought--I thought--you were dead," she
murmured. Her voice sounded far away to her. It was scarcely a whisper.
"So it seems!" Morgan Pell answered, his lip curling. "My dear, I regret to
disappoint you. But aside from a slight pain in my head, I was never better
in my whole life!" He wanted to see the effect of his words.
"Shall I bandage your wound for you?" his dutiful wife asked.
He looked at her from the corner of his eye. "Thank you--no," he said.
Lucia sat down on the other side of the table.
Not a word more was said. Pell took out his own handkerchief, and started
to dip it in the bowl of water. But he was shaking still, and the piece of
linen dropped to the floor. He stooped to pick it up. As he did so, he saw,
in the dim light, the option lying exactly where Pancho Lopez had tossed
it. He grasped it in his hand, crushed and crumpled as it was, and thought
no one had observed him. But Uncle Henry's eagle eye had seen his movement.
"What's that?" he called out.
Pell tried to seem unconcerned. "The option, my dear sir," he answered
truthfully.
"By gollies, he's got it again!" Uncle Henry yelled, in desperation. He
switched his chair around, and faced Gilbert. "Why didn't you tear it up
while he was dead?" he asked.
Pell addressed Uncle Henry. "You've got ten thousand dollars of my money,"
he firmly said.
"_I_ have?"
"I want it," was the other's immediate reply.
"It was paid me for a debt," the old man said.
"It was stolen from me first," Morgan Pell stated, calmly. "Come across."
He put one hand out. The other still held the cloth to his wounded
forehead.
"I'll be cussed if I will!" the invalid cried. He clapped his hands over
his vest pocket, where the money was safely hidden.
"Why, you poor old crook--" Pell began, rose, and snatched the money from
Uncle Henry before anyone knew what he was doing. All his old fire was
back. He seemed the most alive man in the room.
Uncle Henry cried out, wildly, "Hey, ain't there no Americans present?" He
saw Gilbert's gun which was on the seat beneath the stairway. He was close
enough to grasp it. He did so, pointed it at the room in general, and
yelled, "Now I got yuh! Hands up, everybody!"
But no one moved. A disdainful silence followed. "Didn't yuh hear what I
said?" Uncle Henry inquired, looking at everybody.
"Put that down," said Hardy contemptuously. "You might hurt somebody," he
added, smiling.
"Ain't yuh goin' to do it?" Uncle Henry asked.
"As I was going to say--" Hardy started, when Uncle Henry interrupted him
with:
"But it was what _he_ done!"
"Who?" asked Hardy.
"The bandit," Uncle Henry answered.
"Will you keep still?" Hardy urged.
"Certainly not!" Uncle Henry went on. "I got a gun here and I--"
Hardy reached for the weapon. "I'm holdin' you up, gol darn it!" Jasper
Hardy took the gun as he would have taken a bag of peanuts from a child,
and handed it to Gilbert with a wink.
"Hey! You can't do that!" wailed the invalid. He wheeled his chair toward
his nephew. "You wouldn't do that if my friend Lopez was here, you big
bum!" he ended, as peevish as an infant.
Pell turned upon his wife. "Well, my dear--" he began, and once more his
lips curled at the irony of the last phrase.
"What!" Lucia said; and there was terror in her voice.
Pell did not mince words. "Having both the Option and a clearer
understanding of each other, there's nothing to detain us." He measured
everything he uttered, and watched the effect upon her.
"It's no use," Hardy broke in. "You're too late."
"Not if I got there by eight o'clock," Pell said.
"But you won't!" Jasper Hardy quickly said, glancing at the clock which
ticked on, inexorably.
Pell pulled out his watch. Then he looked at the option, deliberately,
carefully, and seemed to read a final sentence. Having done so, he tore the
piece of paper to bits slowly, and scattered them on the floor at his feet.
At that very instant the clock struck eight.
"It's eight o'clock!" "Red" exclaimed on the last peal of the bell.
"Eight o'clock!" Hardy cried. "And the place belongs to me!" He turned to
Pell. "Anything more from you?" he inquired, and smiled.
The other stared at him; but he said nothing. Instead, he went over again
to the table, and wet his handkerchief in the bowl, again refusing Lucia's
proffered assistance with a wave of his other hand. He bathed his own
wound. And meanwhile Hardy was saying to Gilbert:
"Well, young feller, it's your move."
"His move!" "Red" repeated the phrase. "Say, you wouldn't go and skin him
out of the place all over again, would you?"
Hardy sneered. "I'm going to foreclose, certainly, if that's what you mean,
you impudent young scoundrel!"
"You mean you would trim him again?" "Red" didn't believe it.
"Say, boy, you better use your head. You're going to marry my darter, ain't
you?"
"Yes--I hope so," the foreman said.
"Well, don't you realize that all I got will eventually go to you and her?
Don't you?"
"It will?" asked the incredulous "Red."
"Certainly; when I die," answered Hardy.
"I hope it'll be soon!" cried out Uncle Henry. Then, to "Red," "Don't you
see he's leading you up to the top o' that gol darn mountain?"
"Red" did not understand. "Gol darn _what_?" he said.
Uncle Henry was exasperated at his stupidity. "Why, he's temptin' you, the
old devil! Don't let him. It's a gol darn shame," he added, turning his
chair so that he faced Hardy, "an old scoundrel like you tryin' to corrupt
a nice young feller like him! Don't you know money you get like that won't
do you no good?"
"It's his--Gilbert Jones's," cried "Red," "and I ain't goin' to be party to
robbin' him of it!"
"Hooray!" yelled Uncle Henry. "That's the boy! I knew you was like that.
You're all right!" And he backed into the alcove, happier than he had been
in a long time.
"You hear that?" Hardy said to his daughter.
"I do," she answered, "and he's right."
"What's that?" said her surprised father.
"It is Gil's, and to take advantage of him isn't fair. You know it as well
as I do, too!" She stamped her little foot.
"Say, you don't think you love him again, do you?" Hardy wanted to know.
From the alcove, Uncle Henry cried: "That's the idea! And if the poor
sucker'd only marry her--"
But Angela interrupted: "It isn't him I care for. It's--" She cut herself
off, and could have bitten out her tongue for thus revealing her heart.
"Angela!" cried the enraptured "Red." He went over to her, grasped her
around the waist, and led her to the window.
Hardy said, trying to pacify his daughter: "But I ain't going to be hard on
him--or on Jones."
"You ain't?" Uncle Henry cried.
Hardy turned to the nephew. "You know, that stuff Lopez said about me bein'
a bum patriot stuck in my craw. And now that I got the place, if you ever
need any help I'll be glad to go on your note for you."
Gilbert said nothing; but Uncle Henry rushed in with, "You will?"
"That is, if it ain't too much," Hardy craftily added.
"How much?" Uncle Henry asked.
"Oh, two hundred dollars," Jasper Hardy grandly said.
"Two hundred dol--Git out o' my way!" Uncle Henry wheeled straight through
him.
"Say, where are you goin'?" Hardy cried.
"To Mexico!" Uncle Henry said. "This country's gettin' so it ain't fit to
live in!" And he whirled out of the room.
Hardy turned to his daughter. "Nothing to keep us here any longer. Come on,
Angy."
"Come, 'Red,'" said the girl, as she started to follow her father. What
else was there to do?
Even though it was Angela who called to him, "Red's" allegiance was for the
moment elsewhere.
"I gotter stick by him," he said, looking at Gilbert.
"No," said Gilbert. "This is something I've got to settle alone. But I
thank you, 'Red'--I thank you with all my heart. You're a brick--a red
brick." He smiled and patted him on the back.
"Red" was suspicious still. He looked at Gilbert. "You don't think he'll
try any funny business, do you? You're sure you won't need me around?"
"How can he try any funny business?" Gilbert asked.
"I know," said "Red." Gilbert looked at him closely. "I get yuh," the
foreman continued. "But I don't like it just the same." He switched over to
the malignant Pell. "There's one little detail I'd like to call your
attention to," he said.
"Well?" Pell said.
"I'm a tough little feller myself, sometimes. And if anything should happen
that shouldn't, I'll be waitin' for you in town with a one-way ticket. And
it won't be to New York. Savez?" Then he turned to his adored and adoring
Angela. "Come, Angy!"
And he grasped her arm, and took her out.