“I guess that’s all,” and then he went away.
“Detective,” declares Muley. “I seen his star.”
“Well,” observes Telescope, “he sure got a lot of information about the
robbery.”
* * * * *
The next morning, just before noon, we hit Beverley. She’s a humdinger
of a village, for outside looks. The feller who asks us the questions on
the train comes up to Polecat and says—
“You will come with me, please,” and he shoves Polecat into a automobile
before we can stop him.
“There goes exhibit A,” wails Chuck. “Arrested before he got his feet on
the ground.”
We walked all around the depot, but don’t see a soul that we know. Then
we picks up our war-sacks and starts down the street. A feller steps in
front of us and says—
“Hotel Beverley?”
“Take a chance,” advises Telescope, and we all climbs into one of them
covered automobiles. We ain’t no more than set down when here comes
Polecat. He climbs in, pantin’ like a winded coyote.
“I bub-bent a gun over his huh-head,” says Polecat. “The driver tried to
stop me, and we tusseled, but I left him and his danged machine
half-inside a female’s hat-store. Everybody got excited and I got away.
Where we goin’ now?”
Just then we stopped in front of a big building, and a man opened the
door. We went inside and looked around.
“We’ve made a mistake,” says Muley. “This is where the king lives.”
We sets down on a sofy and puts our feet on our sacks. A feller who
looks like a mounted policeman comes up to us and says—
“Can I assist you?”
“You might show us where we can find a hotel,” says Chuck, and the
feller grins and says—
“This is a hotel.”
“Deal in rooms?”
“Certainly.”
“Deal us one with three beds, will yuh. Polecat’s got to sleep alone.”
“Will you come and register, please?”
“You’re —— well right we will,” says Telescope. “This is one time that
we don’t bite off more than we can chew.”
“I can give you a suite,” says the feller at the desk. “I’ll take her,”
says Polecat, but Muley hits him on the hat and shoves him away.
“You’ll take nothin’. Mister, you just give us a place to sleep, and if
this snake-hunter asks for anything extra you jist kick his feet out
from under him. _Sabe?_”
A feller gathers up our war-sacks and takes us over to a little room,
which we seems to fill up full. There’s a feller setting in there.
“My gosh!” wails Polecat, “What does they think we are—hummin’-birds?”
“Ten,” says the feller, and something yanked up like a load of ore. Then
we stopped. Polecat has his gun in one hand and his belt-buckle in the
other.
“Lemme out!” he wails. “Daw—w—gone yuh, lemme out!”
Muley put his hand over Polecat’s mouth, and we went on up, while
Polecat hung to his stummick and kept his eyes shut.
We looks around the place and then looks at each other. There’s three
rooms and a fireplace, and a lot of pictures on the wall.
“What do you reckon they holds us up for this place?” wonders Chuck.
“About thirty dollars a day,” says the feller.
“You jokin’?” asks Muley, but the feller shakes his head.
“No, but it may be more now.”
“Much obliged,” says Telescope. “It looks nice, but we’ve got our own
blankets.”
We walked right out of there and Polecat led us right into that hoist
without looking. The man yanked the lever and—say, I seen Polecat grab
his stummick, and then we hit bottom. The door opens, and we’re back
where we started from.
“Get out,” whispers Telescope. “We’re down.”
“I—I know it,” croaks Polecat. “But I—I wasn’t nowhere near ready.”
We went right out of there as fast as we can go, and stops at the edge
of the sidewalk. A feller says to us—
“Can I take you somewhere?”
“You’re the first friendly person we’ve met,” says Muley. “You know
where Jonathan Perkins’ layout is?”
“Yes.”
“We’re headed that way,” says Chuck.
“Get right in,” says he, and the five of us climbs into his automobile.
We rode for about three miles, and the feller stops outside of a high
stone wall.
“Is this where he lives?” I asks.
“Well,” says he, “I can’t go so far as to say that. This is the Beverley
cemetery. I usually take my customers where they want to go, and no
questions asked.”
“Customer?” I asks.
“Sure. Did you think I was doing this for my health? You owe me four
dollars and twenty cents.”
“To come to a graveyard?” whispers Muley hoarsely.
“Archibald Perkins, it’s no wonder your brother Jonathan died. This town
would kill anybody.”
“Are you—uh—Jonathan Perkins’ brother?”
“The same,” says Polecat.
“Does anybody know you’re here?”
“Nobody’s danged business.”
“Certainly not,” says he. “Certainly not. I was joking about the four
dollars and twenty cents. Don’t you want to see the cemetery? Beautiful
place. I’ll tell you what we’ll do: You fellows go in and look the place
over, and I’ll take Mister Perkins around to the entrance in my machine,
show him his brother’s grave and then come on through and pick you up.”
That was fair enough. They drove away, but Telescope objected about
going into a graveyard.
“Not me,” says he. “That’s the last place I ever want to go into. To me
there ain’t nothin’ beautiful about a graveyard. I’m goin’ to set right
here until they come back.”
None of us are very strong for graveyards; so we sets down there in the
shade. We ain’t been there very long, when along comes a machine just
like the one we came in. It sails past us, and Telescope lets out a
yelp—
“My —— Didja see him? Didja? Polecat was drivin’ that machine.”
“You’re crazy!” declares Chuck.
“I tell yuh it was,” insists Telescope. “Polecat Perkins was drivin’
that machine.”
“Don’t yell so loud,” says Muley. “We can hear yuh. Yelpin’ at the top
of your voice ain’t goin’ to make us believe any more than a whisper
would.”
We stands there in the road, arguing about it, when all to once here
comes another machine of the same kind, only this one is eating up space
like a telegram.
Polecat is there, hanging onto the steering-device, with his mouth wide
open, looking straight ahead.
“He’s circling the graveyard!” yelps Muley. “Good night, Polecat
Perkins.”
We hears a crash. Telescope takes off his hat.
“There goes twenty thousand dollars, gents.”
“Look!” whoops Muley, and out of the gate comes that machine, or what is
left of it. It wobbles over and pokes its nose against a pole, gives a
wheeze and quits. Out of the gate comes Polecat. The crown is gone from
his derby hat, and one pant leg is torn off at the knee. In his hands
he’s still got the steering-wheel.
“I—I cut—cut—cut—cut——” he stammers.
“Thinks he’s a hen,” gasps Muley.
“Cut across,” finishes Polecat weak-like. “I—I went around twice but I
can’t hit the gate; so I jumped the fence.”
“Where is the feller who drives it?” I asks.
“Oh, him?” Polecat thinks back that far, and then grins. “He wanted to
take me to the Perkins home. Said it would be a good joke on your
fellers to make you walk back. I told him to get a laugh out of it, and
then I dumped him off the seat. The danged machine was running, and I
didn’t know how to stop it.”
“Let’s go,” says Chuck. “I don’t want to get arrested for hurdle-racin’
in a graveyard. Let’s get our war-sacks out of the wreck.”
“I hope folks _sabe_ their own graves,” says Polecat, “’cause I sure
changed the location of a lot of tombstones.”
* * * * *
It didn’t take us long to get tired of walking. It was hot along that
road, and when we comes to some bushes Muley suggests that we wait until
dark. We cooked some feed with Polecat’s camp-outfit, and it sure tasted
good. As soon as it gets dark we starts on again. We ain’t gone far when
we sees the lights of a automobile coming up the road.
“Here’s where we ride,” says Telescope.
We did. It’s a gosh-awful big machine—one of them kind all closed in
like a house, with the driver out on the front porch. The feller inside
is a skinny little pelican, with a awful sharp face. He’s got the
slickest clothes I ever seen—even got them cloth things over the top of
his shoes.
“May I ask what you stopped me for?” asks he, mean-like.
“We’ll ride with yuh,” says Telescope. “You’ve got plenty of room,” and
we all piled in with our sacks.
“I really don’t understand,” says he, nervous-like.
“Just go ahead and we’ll take care of us,” says Chuck. “We just want to
get to town.”
“But I’m not going to town,” says he.
“We don’t care where you go,” says Telescope. “We’re tired of walkin’.
All we want is a place where we can buy a drink.”
He picks up a thing what looks like a hose, and says into it, “Go on,
Peters.”
“You’ve got a nice graveyard out here,” says Polecat. “I’ve been all
around and through it.”
The feller just glances at Polecat, but don’t say a word.
“Does them things keep your ankles warm?” asks Muley.
“I’d sweat in ’em,” says Polecat. “Your feet sweat easy?”
The feller sort of gargles and looks up at the light in the ceiling of
the car.
“Reminds me of a sheepherder I knowed oncet,” says Polecat. “He’d set
all day and never say a word. One time—” but just then we drove up to a
house and stopped. A man opened the door, and we all follered the little
feller inside and up the stairs.
Man, there’s something going on in there. Men and women, all drinkin’
and playing on gambling-devices. She’s wilder than Dawson City in the
old days, but dressed different.
A chinless _hombre_ is trying to sing a song, but nobody seems to enjoy
him. He sees the feller with us, and he weaves over where we are.
“I came to take you home, Reginald,” says our guide. “This place is to
be raided tonight. Understand?”
“Go home yourshelf,” says Reginald. “Thish is no place for respectable
lawyer. Go home, Geoffrey, and tell your wife she wants you,” and then
he weaves back to the tables.
“The drunken fool!” squeaks the little feller.
“Let’s have a drink,” says Telescope.
“I do not drink,” declares Geoffrey. “You’ll enjoy it,” says Muley. “I
wish it was my first experience.”
I’ll draw a veil over the next fifteen minutes. Geoffrey drank a small
glass of beer—with two drinks of hooch in it—and inside of five minutes
he’s telling us all his past life. He tells us that he is Andrew
Geoffrey, the greatest corporation-lawyer in the State. He has another
shot of temptation, and then he confides that he’s likely the biggest
corporation-lawyer on earth. That _hombre_ sure covered a lot of ground.
“Who is the drunk you’re tryin’ to save?” asks Muley. “Tha’s Reginald
Harrison Perkins, son of the late Jonathan Perkins. I’m retained by the
estate.”
“Jonathan was my brother,” says Polecat, tearful-like.
Andy shuts one eye tight and grins at Polecat. Then he shakes his head.
“Sh-h-h-h,” says he. “Woods ’r full of ’m. You’re number sheven.”
“That’s too bad,” says Chuck, wiggling his ears. “I didn’t know they run
in flocks. Do we imbibe over our disappointment?”
“In wine,” says Andy. “Waiter, bring us fi’ quarts.”
We got it. That waiter gives us a wash-tub full of ice and bottles, and
we elects Telescope bartender. He grabs a bottle and starts to take the
bailing-wire off the top.
_Bam!_
Something hit Polecat between the eyes, and he went over backward and
came up with a gun in his hand. Telescope stands there sprinkling
everybody, and just then somebody yelps:
“Police! Police!” and into the door comes a million of ’em.
“Shave me!” weeps Andy! “Shave me! I forgot ’em.”
“This is no barber-shop,” yelps Telescope, and sails that wine-bottle
straight at the law-and-order mob.
Then some wise _hombre_ cut off the lights, and —— takes a recess. Man,
it was some stampede!
“Save Andy!” yells Telescope. “Don’t shoot until you see the whites of
their eyes.”
I dove across the table and got Andy around the waist with one arm, and
with my other hand I got a bottle of wine. We went some. I took him
across a defunct roulette-table, under another table, and then we hit
the door. Lucky? Well, I reckon we was. I yanks Andy outside, slammed my
bottle back into the whirlpool, and then me and Andy took one step and
went into space.
Comes a awful jolt, the smashing of wood and glass, and when I gets my
eyes straight again I finds myself setting in a automobile beside a
policeman, and I can look right up through the roof where we came in.
I’ve got my arms around this officer, but he’s been hit so hard he don’t
care.
“Did I get you by mistake?” I asks, but all he does is to open his lips
and say:
“Move on. You can’t loaf here.”
I got out and looked around. I can see where we came out. Part of that
verandy rail is hanging down, and there’s a lot of house-plants
scattered over the grass. There is plenty of things going on upstairs. I
hears Telescope’s voice yelping for Muley to hang on to Andy, and then a
whole bunch of ’em surges out of the same door.
“Drop him and then jump,” grunts Chuck, but that weak little verandy
saved ’em the trouble. They all lit in a heap on the grass, where they
untangles slow-like.
“My gosh, that was some battle!” gasps Muley. “Where is Andy’s
automobile?”
“Take this one,” says I, and we manages to get everybody inside. The
seats are built along the sides in this one.
“Who can drive?” asks Telescope. “Hurry before the police get down here.
Can you drive, Andy?”
Andy is too stewed to talk, but he nods. We shoves him onto the seat,
and away we go.
“Where did you get the policeman?” asks Muley.
“I got him by mistake,” I yells. “Drop him on to a soft place.”
Telescope picked him up and eased him into the brush along the road, but
the policeman didn’t mind. He just grinned.
We went some, with chances pretty big that we’d go faster.
“Where’s Polecat?” yells Muley. “Have we lost him again?”
“Stop!” yelps Chuck. “We’ve got to go back after Polecat.”
“Stop it yourself,” yelps Polecat’s voice. “I don’t know how.”
“Where’s Andy?” I yells.
“Under my feet. He was too drunk to drive anything. Where’s the thing
you stop her with?”
I reckon he finds out. They’ve been sprinkling the street along there,
and Polecat manages to lock our wheels.
“Pardners for a waltz!” howls Muley, and I’m betting that we turned
around ten times.
“Kick off that brake!” yelps Telescope.
_Bang!_ We goes ahead like a shot, and that engine sounds like forty
shotguns all going off to once.
“Where you goin’?” whoops Muley, as Polecat comes clawing over the top
of us. “Where you goin’, feller?”
“I’m goin’ to jump off the hind end,” yells Polecat. “The front end is
goin’ too fast.”
Just then we seems to elevate our front end, and then the hind end kicks
up just in time to land us against the ceiling, and then we starts over
the ocean waves.
“Pow-w-w-der River!” yelps Polecat. I got Muley around the waist,
thinking that maybe he’d sort of anchor me, but the fat son of a gun has
got more bounce in him than I have.
Then we turned a handspring.
* * * * *
Muley swore that the police found me and him in the top of a tree, but I
don’t believe it. Trees don’t grow that high. Anyway, I woke up, hearing
Telescope’s voice telling me to quit singing.
“The jailer said he’d put you under the pump if you didn’t quit,” says
he.
I looks around—with one eye; the other is swelled shut. Chuck and Muley
are setting against the wall, and Telescope is standing, leaning on the
bars.
“Did we drive right into jail?” I asks.
“Might as well,” groans Telescope. “Did you just wake up? You’ve been
singin’ for seven hours.”
“What are we in jail for?” I asks.
“Stealing a taxicab, assaulting the driver, refusin’ to pay fare,
assaultin’ policemen, and last but not least—absconding with the
police-patrol,” enumerates Muley, sad-like.
“Amen,” says Chuck. “Paradise was saddle-marked before this village ever
felt a rope. Reckon they’ll hang us?”
“I don’t care what they do, just so they don’t make me set down,” says
Telescope. “I slid two hundred yards on the seat of my pants, and when
them policemen found me I was on fire.”
“Polecat—where is he?” I asks.
“Among the missin’,” says Telescope. “Him and Andy was so light they
never came down, I reckon. I can’t say that I give a dang.”
Just then a couple of officers comes to the door and unlocks it.
“Do we get our choice between shootin’ and hangin’?” asks Chuck.
“Not quite that bad,” grins one of ’em. “You feel like leavin’ town?
There’s a train out in an hour. Know what I mean?”
“I hope it goes fast,” says Telescope. “Is there any law that says we
can’t walk down the track and pick it up when it comes along?”
“Use your own judgment.”
“Not me,” grins Chuck. “I tried it once, and look where we are. Who got
us loose?”
“Don’t argue!” snaps Telescope. “Andy’s a big lawyer. Him and the law
must stand together.”
Them two fellers grins at each other, and watches us hit for the open
country. A kid asks us to buy a paper, and Muley took one. We humped up
in a corner of the depot and waited for the train.
“Look at this!” snorts Muley. “Polecat! Look at it!” There she is, in
big, black letters: