A CLEVER TRICK
At the foot of the rear stairs in the home of Widow Friestone was an
ordinary door latched at night, but without any lock. When Mike Murphy
was groping about in the blank darkness, where nothing was familiar, he
did not know, as has been said, of the steepness of the steps. Thus he
placed his shoe upon vacancy, and, unable to check himself, bumped to the
bottom, striking every step on the route, and banging against the door
with such force that the latch gave away, it flew open, and he sprawled
on his hands and knees, still grasping the rifle with which he had set
out to hunt for burglars. He was not hurt, and bounded like a rubber ball
to his feet.
An amazing scene confronted him. A young man, his face covered with a
mask, had just drawn back the ponderous door of the safe, and by the
light of a small dark lantern in his left hand was trying to unlock one
of the inner compartments, with a bunch of small keys held in his right.
It was at this instant that the racket followed by the crash which burst
open the door paralyzed him for the moment. He straightened up and stared
through the holes of his mask at the apparition that had descended upon
him like a thunderbolt, in helpless amazement.
If he was terrified, Mike Murphy was not. Forgetful of his shillaleh in
the shape of the Springfield, he made a leap at the fellow.
"S'render, ye spalpeen!" he shouted. The criminal answered by viciously
hurling the lantern into the face of his assailant, and in the act, the
mask somehow or other was disarranged and slipped from its place. It was
only a passing glimpse that Mike caught of him, but it identified him as
one of the young men who had attacked Alvin Landon some nights before
while passing through the stretch of woods near his home.
The throwing of the lamp was the best thing the burglar could have done,
for it caught the Irish youth fairly between the eyes and dazed him for
an invaluable second or two. Instant to seize his advantage, the criminal
made a leap through the rear window, which he had left open for that
purpose, and sped like a deer across the back yard of the premises. Mike
was at his heels and shouted:
"Stop! stop! or I'll blow ye into smithereens! I've got a double barreled
cannon wid me, and if ye want to save yer life, s'render before I touch
her off!"
Perhaps if the fugitive had not been in so wild a panic he would have
given himself up, for no man willingly invites the discharge of a deadly
weapon a few paces behind him. But the youth was bent on escape if the
feat were possible and ran with the vigor of desperation.
Less than a hundred yards over the garden beds and grass took the fellow
to the paling boundary over which he leaped like a greyhound. Mike would
have done the same, but feared it was too much for him. Moreover, his
short legs could not carry him as fast as those of the fleeing one. The
pursuer rested a hand on the palings and went over without trouble. By
that time the fugitive was a goodly distance off in the act of clearing a
second fence. In dread lest he should get away, Mike called:
"Have sinse, ye lunkhead! I don't want to kill ye, but hanged if I don't,
if ye fail to lay down yer arms."
The appeal like all that had preceded it was unheeded. The burglar must
have taken heart from the fact that his pursuer had already held his fire
so long. Running with unusual speed, he took advantage of the shadow
offered by several back buildings and continued steadily to gain. When he
made a quick turn and whisked out of sight, the exasperated Mike dropped
to a rapid walk.
"Arrah, now, if this owld gun was only in shape! there wouldn't be any
sich race as this, as Brian O'Donovan said--phwat's that?"
When within twenty feet of a small barn, a burly man stepped out of the
gloom and with a large gun levelled gruffly commanded:
"Throw up your arms or I'll let moonlight through you!"
"I don't see any room for argyment, as Jed Mitchell said whin----"
"Up with your hands! and drop that gun!" thundered the other, and Mike
let the old rifle fall to his feet and reached up as if trying to hold
the moon in place. Which incident requires an explanation.
Gerald Buxton, the father of Jim, had no sooner heard the story of his
boy than he decided, as had been related, that something was wrong at the
post office. He had read of the many robberies in southern Maine during
the preceding summer, else he might not have been so quick to reach a
conclusion. He woke his wife, told her his belief and then took down his
shotgun from over the deer's antlers in the kitchen. Both barrels were
always loaded, but to make sure of no lack of ammunition, he put a number
of extra shells loaded with heavy shot into his pockets.
"Remember," he said impressively to his son, "to stay home and not show
your nose outside the door while I'm gone."
"Yaws, sir," meekly replied Jim, who three minutes later, unseen by his
mother, sneaked out of the back door and reached the battlefield directly
behind his parent.
Mr. Buxton had never had any experience with house breakers, and did some
quick thinking from the moment he left his front gate until he arrived on
the scene. Nothing seemed more natural than that the ruffians would not
approach the house from the front, but by the rear. The light which Jim
saw must have come from the back part of the store. For the gang to make
their entrance from the main street would have been far more dangerous.
Because of this theory, Mr. Buxton crossed the road directly before his
own house, passed through the alley of a neighbor, and followed a
circuitous course which compelled him to climb several back fences. But
he knew all the people, and in case he was questioned could readily
explain matters.
So in due time he came to the barn of one of his friends, and had turned
to pass around it when to his astonishment a man dashed toward him on a
dead run. Buxton was alert, and pointing his weapon, crisply commanded:
"Stop or I'll fire!"
The panting fellow obeyed with the exclamation:
"I'm so glad!"
"Glad of what?"
"That you came as you did. There are burglars in the post office!"
"That's what I thought, but wasn't sure. Who are you and why are you in
such an all-fired hurry?"
"One of them is chasing me. I tried to wake the postmistress, when he
heard me and I had to run for my life. How thankful I am that you
appeared just in time!"
"Where is the scandalous villain?" demanded Mr. Buxton, glancing on all
sides.
"He will be here in a minute."
"I shan't wait for him; tell me where he is."
The fugitive, who was momentarily expecting the appearance of his
pursuer, pointed to the barn around which he had just dashed.
"He is coming from there. Look out, or he'll shoot you!"
"I'm ready for him," exclaimed the angered citizen as he hurriedly
trotted off and confronted Mike Murphy a few seconds later.
We have learned of the pointed conversation which passed between them.
Mike's first thought was that it was one of the robbers who had held him
up, but there was no gainsaying the argument brought to bear against him.
He remained with hands uplifted, awaiting the will of his captor.
"So you're one of those post office robbers," said Mr. Buxton, partly
lowering his weapon.
"Not that I know of," replied Mike, beginning to scent the truth.
"Have you a pistol?"
"The only deadly wippon I have is me pocketknife, with its two blades
broke and the handle being lost some time since."
"Where is the rest of your gang?" demanded the man, stepping closer to
the youth.
"The two frinds that I have are wid the widder Mrs. Friestone, doing
their best to entertain the leddy and her daughter, while I started out
to chase one of the spalpeens that run too fast for me to catch."
Mr. Buxton stepped still nearer. He was becoming doubtful.
"Who the mischief are you, anyway?"
"Mike Murphy, born in Tipperary, in the County of Tipperary, Ireland, and
lately, arrove in Ameriky."
"What are you doing here?"
"Standing still for the time, as Pat Mulrooney said whin the byes tied
him to the gate post and wint off and left him."
"Ain't you one of those post office robbers?"
The question told Mike the whole truth. It was a clever trick that had
been played upon him, and his musical laugh rang out on the still night.
"What made ye have that opinion?"
"I just met a young chap the other side of this barn, and when I stopped
him he said he was running away from an enemy."
"Which the same was the thruth."
"And that one of the gang was chasing him, meaning to shoot him."
"It's mesilf that would have shot if I'd had a gun wid a conscience, fur
I catched the spalpeen when he was opening the safe of Widder Friestone,
and I made after him; but most persons can run faster than mesilf, owing
to me short legs, and he was laving me behind, whin ye interfared."
"Do you mean to tell me that first fellow was one of the burglars?" asked
the astounded Mr. Buxton.
"As sure as ye are standing there admiring me looks."
"Confound the rapscallion! I'll get him yet!" and the irate citizen
dashed off with the resolution, to put it mildly, of correcting the error
he had made.