_In which Boggs Becomes Dramatic and Relates a Tale of Blood._
Mr. Alexander Macwhirter's great picture, "Early Morning on the East
River," was still on his easel. The Hanging Committee had taken the
outside measurement of the frame; had hung the other pictures up to the
line of this measurement; had inserted the title and price in the
official catalogue, and were then awaiting Mac's finishing touches.
MacWhirter had struck a snag in the middle distance, and until this was
repainted to his satisfaction the picture would not leave his studio,
official catalogue or no official catalogue.
On this afternoon Lonnegan was the first to arrive. The great architect
on his way downtown must have dropped in upon some social function, or
was about to attend one later in the day, for he wore his morning
frock-coat, white waistcoat, and a decoration in his button-hole--an
unusual attire for Lonnegan unless the affair was of more than customary
brilliancy and importance.
"Let up, Mac," cried Lonnegan from behind the Chinese screen, as he
looked over its top; "the light's gone and you can't see what you're
doing."
"I've got light enough to see where to put my foot," Mac shouted back.
"Easy, easy, old man! Don't smash it; masterpieces are rare! Let me have
a look at it. Why, it's all right! What's the matter with it?"
"Shadow tones under the cliffs all out of key. There are a lot of
wharves, sheds, and vessels lying there half-smothered in mist. I do not
want to do more than suggest them, but they've got to be right."
"Well, but you can't see to paint any longer. Give it up until morning."
"Haven't got time! Hanging Committee has sent here three times to-day."
Marny, Pitkin, Boggs, and Woods walked in and joined the group about
Mac's easel, a "sick picture" (pictures get ill and die, or recover and
become famous, as well as men) being a matter of the very first
importance.
Each new arrival had some advice to offer. Pitkin thought the sky
reflections were not silvery enough. Woods wanted a touch of red
somewhere on the sides or sterns of the boats, with a "click" of high
light on their decks to relieve them from the haze of the background.
"Right out of the tube, old man, and don't touch it afterward. It'll
make it _sing_!" Boggs ignored all suggestions by saying, in a
dictatorial tone:
"Don't you do anything of the kind, Mac; you don't want any drops of red
sealing wax spilt on that middle distance, or any blobs of white; only
make it worse. All you need is a touch here and there of yellow-white
against that purple haze. But you don't want to guess at it. This East
River is a _fact_, not a _dream_. And it's right here under our eyes.
Everybody knows it and everybody knows how it looks. If you want it
true, the best thing for you to do is to go there to-morrow morning at
daylight and wait until the sun gets to your angle. You fellows that
insist on painting things out of your heads instead of following what is
set down before you will run to seed like cabbages. Why you want to
scoop up the emptyings of everybody's wash-basins, when it is so easy to
get buckets of pure water fresh from nature's well, is what gets me."
"Talks like an art critic," growled Pitkin.
"And with as little sense," added Woods.
"More like a plumber, I should think," remarked Lonnegan drily. "Only
don't you go up on that hill at five o'clock in the morning, Mac, or
you'll never finish that picture or anything else. Some thug will finish
_you_. That's the worst hole on the river--regular den of thieves live
under that hill. I came near being murdered there myself once."
Lonnegan's statement caused a sensation.
"You came near being murdered, you dear Lonny?" Mac asked nervously.
"Yes."
"When?"
"Some three years ago."
Boggs, who was still smarting under the contempt with which his
suggestion had been received, now shouted in the voice of a newsboy
selling an afternoon edition:
"Full and graphic account of the hair-breadth escape of a great
architect. Sit down, gentlemen, and listen to a tale that will clog your
veins with dynamite and make goose shivers go up and down your spine.
Here, Lonnegan, rest your immaculately upholstered body in this chair
and tell us all about it. Put up your brushes, Mac; I'll help you wash
'em. Everybody draw up to the fire." (Here Boggs dropped into his own
chair.) "The modern Moses is going to tell us how he was pulled out of
the bulrushes and why he has an excuse for still walking around among
his fellow-men instead of being tucked away in some comfortable cemetery
on a hill under a mausoleum of his own designing.
"Ladies and gentlemen"--Boggs was again on his feet, a ring in his voice
like that of a showman--"it is my especial privilege, and one of the
greatest honors of my life, to introduce to you this afternoon the
distinguished architect, Mr. Archibald Perkins Lonnegan, who----"
"Will you keep still!" cried Pitkin, putting both hands on Boggs's
shoulder and forcing him into his chair. "Sit on him, Marny!"
Mac by this time had laid his palette on his painting table and had
moved to the fire.
"You never told me anything about that, Lonny."
"Well, don't know that I did; 'twas some time ago."
"You're sure that you aren't really murdered, me long-lost che-ild?"
whined Boggs in an anxious tone; these changes of manner, tone, and
gesture of the Chronic Interrupter,--imitating in one sentence the
newsboy, in another the showman, and now the anxious mother--were as
much a part of his personality, and as much enjoyed by the coterie,
despite their constant protests, as the bubbling good nature which
inspired them.
"Feel that," said Lonnegan, tapping his biceps as he frowned at Boggs,
"and you'll find out how much of a corpse I am."
Boggs' plump fingers squeezed the corded muscles of the speaker with the
dexterity of a surgeon hunting for broken bones. Then he cast his eyes
heavenward.
"Saved by a miracle, gentlemen. Thank God, he is still spared to us! Now
go on, you fashion-plate! When, where, and in what part of your valuable
and talented person were you almost murdered?"
Everybody was now seated and had his pipe filled, all except Lonnegan,
who stood on the rug with his slender, well-built and, to-day,
well-dressed body in silhouette against the blazing logs, his shapely
legs forming an inverted V.
"This isn't much of a story. I wouldn't tell it at all if it wasn't to
save Mac's life. There are two or three places under that East River
hill where it is unsafe to walk even in broad daylight, let alone in the
gray of the morning. When I tried it I was looking for one of my
foremen--or, rather, for one of his derrick-men. I knew the street, but
I didn't know the number. After dinner I started up Third Avenue, turned
to Avenue A, and found that my only way to reach the place was down a
long street leading to the river, flanked on each side by barren lots
used as dumping-grounds and dotted here and there with squatters'
shanties built of refuse timber, old tin roofs, and junk; gas lamps a
block apart, with the sidewalks flagged only in the centre.
"I went myself because I wanted the derrick-man, and I wanted him at
seven o'clock on Monday morning, and I knew he'd come if I could see
him.
"Half-way down this long street, say two blocks from the avenue, which
was brilliantly lighted and thronged with people--it was Saturday
night--I saw the lights of a bar-room, the only brick building fronting
either side of the walk."
"Were you rigged out in this royal apparel, Lonny?" broke in Boggs.
"No; I was in a dress-suit and wore an overcoat. Without thinking of the
danger, I stepped inside and walked up to the barkeeper--a
villainous-looking cutthroat, in his shirt sleeves.
"'I am looking for a man by the name of Dennis McGrath,' I said; 'I
thought some of you men might know him.'
"The fellow looked me all over, and then he called to two men sitting at
the table behind the stove. As he spoke I caught the flash of a wink
quivering on his eyelid--the lid farthest from me. Nothing uncovers the
workings of a man's brain like a carefully concealed wink. It may mean
anything from ridicule to murder.
"One of the men winked at got up from a table and approached the bar,
followed by a larger man, with a face like a bull terrier.
"'What yer say his name is--McGrath?'
"All this time his eyes were sizing me up, scrutinizing my hat, my
shirt-studs, watch-chain, overcoat, gloves, down to my shoes. The
smaller man--'Shorty,' the barkeeper called him--now repeated the larger
man's question.
"'Did yer say his name's McGrath? What's he do?'
"'He is a derrick-man.'
"Shorty was now well under the light of the bar. He had a scar over one
damaged eye and a flattened nose, the same blow having evidently wrecked
both; over the other was pulled a black cloth cap; around his throat was
a dirty red handkerchief, no collar showing--a capital make-up for a
stage villain, I thought, as I looked him over, especially the
handkerchief. Even Mac here would look like a burglar with his hair
mussed, collar off, and a red handkerchief tied around his throat.
"The barkeeper piped up again: 'Get a move on, Shorty, and help the gent
find the Mick.'
"'Shure! I know him. He's a-livin' under de rocks. Come 'long, Boss.
I'll git him.'
"Two more men stepped out of the gloom; one, in a cap and yellow
overcoat, went behind the bar and slipped something into his pocket;
then the two lounged out of the room and shut the door behind them. I
began to take in the situation. The purpose of the wink was clear now. I
was in a dive in a deserted street, unarmed and alone, and surrounded by
cutthroats. If I tried to find McGrath with any one of these men as a
guide I would be robbed and thrown over the cliff; if I attempted to go
back I would land in the clutches of the man in the yellow overcoat and
his companion. All this time the barkeeper was leaning over the bar, his
eyes fixed on my face. My only hope lay in a bold front.
"'All right,' I said to Shorty; 'how far is it?'
"'Oh, not very fur--'bout t'ree blocks.'
"I stepped out into the night.
"Down the long street on the way to the river stood three men--the man
in the yellow overcoat, his companion, and one other. They separated
when they saw me, the one in the overcoat retracing his steps toward the
dive without looking my way, the others sauntering on ahead. I walked
on, meditating what to do next. I could throttle Shorty and take to my
heels, but then I would have to reckon with the pickets who might be
between me and the bar-room.
"Sometimes, when in great danger, a sudden inspiration comes to a man;
mine came out of a clear sky.
"'Hold on,' I said to Shorty--we were now half a block from the dive.
'Wait a minute; I have nothing smaller than a ten-dollar bill, and I
want to give you something for your trouble. I'll run back and get the
barkeeper to change it. Stay where you are; I won't be a minute.'
"I turned on my heel and walked back toward the dive with a quick step,
as if I had forgotten something. The man with the yellow overcoat saw me
coming and stepped into the street as if to intercept me. Shorty gave
two low whistles, and the man stepped back to the sidewalk again. I
reached the doorstep of the dive. All the men were now between me and
the river, the one in the yellow overcoat but a short distance from the
bar-room, Shorty waiting for me where I left him. With the same hurried
movement I swung back the door, stepped inside, stripped off my
overcoat, folded it close, threw it over my arm, and, before the
barkeeper could realize what I was doing, pulled my hat close down to my
ears, jerked the lapels of my dress-coat over my shirt-front to hide the
white bosom, dashed out of the door and sprang for the middle of the
street."
Here Lonnegan stopped and puffed away at his pipe. For a minute every
man kept still.
"Go on, Lonny," said Mac, the intensity of his interest apparent in the
tones of his voice.
"That's all," said Lonnegan. "The change of coats and slight disguise of
hat and lapels threw them off their guard. The outside pickets thought,
when I burst through the door, that I was somebody else until I was too
far away to be overtaken. That's what saved my life."
"And you call that an adventure, you fake!" cried Boggs. "Ran like a
street dog, did you, and hid under your mammy's bed?"
"Well, what's the matter with the yarn," retorted Lonnegan; "it's true,
isn't it?"
"Matter with it? Everything! No point to it, no common sense in it; just
a fool yarn! You go out hunting trouble with your imagination on edge,
like a scared child. You meet a man who offers to conduct you
gratuitously to a house up a back street; you agree to pay him for his
trouble; you make a lame excuse to dodge him, he relying on your word to
return, and then you take to your heels and cheat him out of his pay. No
yarn at all; just a disgraceful bunco game!"
The Circle were now in an uproar of laughter, everybody talking at once.
Marny finally got the floor.
"Boggs is right," he said, "about Lonnegan's conduct. It is
extraordinary how low an honest man will sometimes stoop. Lonnegan's
life among the aristocrats of Murray Hill is undermining his high sense
of honor. Now I'll tell you a story of an escape that really has some
point to it."
"Is this another fake murder yarn?" asked Boggs. "We don't want any more
fizzles."
"Pretty close to the real thing--close enough to turn your hair gray.
About fifteen years ago----"
"Now hold on, Marny," interrupted Boggs, "one thing more. Is this out of
your head, like one of your muddy, woolly landscapes, or is it founded
on fact?"
"It's founded on fact."
"Got any proof?"
"Yes, got the pistol that saved my life. It's on a shelf in my studio
downstairs. If anybody doubts my story I'll bring it up. About twelve or
fifteen years back----"
"He said _fifteen_ a moment since," grumbled Boggs in an undertone to
himself, "now he's qualifying it. First knock-down for the doubters. Go
on."
"Well, say fifteen then; my memory is not good on dates; my brother and
I made a trip to the Peaks of Otter, just over the North Carolina line.
I was a boy of twenty and he was a man of thirty-two. He was a dead shot
with a rifle or pistol and could knock a cent to pieces edgewise at
fifty yards. While I painted, he scalped red squirrels and chipmunks
with a long Flobert pistol that carried a ball the size of a buckshot; a
toy really, but true as a Winchester.
"We found the Peaks, or rather the peak we climbed, a sugar-loaf of a
mountain with almost perpendicular slopes near its top, crowned by a
cluster of enormous boulders. From its crest one can see all over that
part of the State. Half-way up we stopped at a small tavern, inquired
the way to the top, borrowed two small blankets of the landlord, and
bought some cold meat and bread and a few teaspoonfuls of tea. These we
put in a haversack, and leaving my heavy painting-trap we continued on
about three o'clock in the afternoon to climb the peak. The only things
we carried, outside of the provisions and blankets, were my pocket
sketch-book and the Flobert pistol. It was the worst I have ever done in
all my mountain climbing. Sometimes we edged along a precipice and
sometimes we pulled ourselves up a cliff almost perpendicular. There was
no doubt about the path--that was plainly marked by sign-boards and
blazed trees and the wear of many feet, and then again it was perfectly
plain that it was the only way up the mountain.
"We reached the top about sundown and found a cabin built of logs, with
one window, a sawed pine door with a bolt inside, a rusty stove and
pipe, and a low bed covered with dry straw. Scattered about were two or
three wooden stools, and on the window-sill stood a tin coffee-pot and
two tin cups.
"When it began to grow dark and the chill of the mountains had settled
down, we started a fire in the stove, put on the pot, dumped in our tea,
and began to spread out our provisions. Then we lighted one of the
candles the inn people had given us, and ate our supper.
"About ten o'clock a puff of wind struck the stovepipe and scattered the
ashes over the floor. The next instant the growl of distant thunder
reached our ears. Then a storm burst upon the mountains, the lightning
striking all about us. This went on for two hours--after midnight
really; we couldn't sleep, and we didn't try to. We just sat up and took
it, expecting every minute that the shanty would be tumbled in on top of
us. About one o'clock the rain slackened, the wind went down, and we
could hear the growl of the thunder as the lightning played havoc on
the peak to the north of us. Then we bolted the door to keep the wind
from blowing it in should the storm return, rolled up in our blankets on
our bed of straw and leaves, and fell asleep, leaving the matches close
to the candle.
"We had hardly dropped off when we were awakened by a pounding at the
door. In the dead of night, remember, on top of a mountain that a cat
could hardly climb in the daytime, and after that storm!
"We both sprang up, scared out of our wits. Then we heard a man's voice,
rough and coarse, and in a commanding tone:
"'Open the door!'
"I was on my feet now. My brother caught up his pistol, slipped in a
cartridge, and poured the balance of the ammunition into his
side-pocket; then he called:
"'Who are you?'
"'Don't make any difference who we are,' came another voice, sharper and
in a higher key. 'You don't own this shanty. Open the door, damn you, or
we'll break it in!'
"We might have handled one man; two or more were out of the question. My
brother stepped across the bed, backed into the shadow away from the
rays of the flickering firelight, cocked the pistol, and nodded to me. I
slipped back the bolt.
"Two men entered. One had a brown, bushy beard, a low forehead, and
ugly, uncertain mouth. He was stockily built, with stout legs and short,
powerful arms and hands. The other was tall and lanky, with a hatchet
face and cunning, searching eyes--eyes that looked at you and then
looked away. He wore a slouch hat and homespun clothes and high boots,
in which were stuffed the bottoms of his trousers. As he followed the
shorter man inside the cabin he had to stoop to clear the top of the
door-jamb.
"We saw that they were not mountaineers--their dress showed that; nor
did they look like the men we had seen in the village. Both were
drenched to the skin, the legs of their trousers and boots reeking with
mud, the water still dripping from their hats.
"The shorter man looked at me and then ran his eye around the room.
"'Where is the other one?' he asked in the same domineering tone.
"'Here he is,' answered my brother coolly, from behind the bed.
"The two men peered into the shadow, where my brother sat crouched with
his back to the logs, the pistol on his knee within reach of his hand.
From where I stood I could catch the red glint of the forelight flashing
down its barrel. The men must have seen it too.
"'We're goin' to chuck some wood in this 'ere stove. Got any
objections?' asked the tall man, pulling his wet slouch hat from his
head and beating the water out of it against the pile of firewood. The
tone was a little less brutal.
"'No,' answered my brother curtly.
"The tall one reached over the pile, picked up a log and shoved it in
the stove. Then the two stretched themselves out at full length and
looked steadily at the blaze, the steam from their wet clothes filling
the room. No other word was passed, either by the men or by my brother
or myself, nor did we change our positions. I sat on one of the stools
and my brother sat in the corner where he could draw a bead if either of
the men showed fight. Three o'clock came, then four, then five, and then
the cold gray light which tells of the coming dawn stole in between the
cracks of the cabin and the broken window. At the first streak of light
the tall man lifted himself to his feet, the short man followed, and
swinging wide the door the two stalked out to the farthest edge of the
pile of boulders overlooking the plain, where they squatted on their
haunches, their eyes toward the east. We took our positions on a rock
behind them, a little higher up. Any move they made would come under the
fire of my brother's toy gun. The sun's disk rose slowly--first a peep
of the old fellow's eye, then half his cheek, and then his round, jolly
face wreathed in smiles. When the bottom edge of his chin had swung
clear of the crest of the distant mountain range the tall man leaned
over his companion and said in a decisive tone:
"'Well, Bill, she's up,' and without a word to either of us they swung
themselves through the opening in the boulders and disappeared."
* * * * *
The coterie had listened in their usual absorbed way whenever Marny had
the floor. His experience, like Mac's, covered half the world. Boggs
had not taken his eyes from Marny's face during the entire recital.
"And that's all you know about them?" asked Lonnegan in a serious tone.
"Except what the landlord told us," continued Marny in answer, turning
to Lonnegan. "The two men, he said, had stopped at the tavern about nine
o'clock that night, had asked who was on top, and had hurried on; all
they wanted was a stable lantern, which he lent them, and which they
didn't return. He had never seen either of them before, and they didn't
pass the tavern on their way back."
"What did you think of the affair?" asked Pitkin in a serious tone of
voice.
"We had only two conclusions. They had either come to rob us, and were
scared off by the toy pistol, or they were carrying out a wager of some
kind."
"And it took you all night and the next day to find that out?"
exclaimed Boggs in a tone of assumed contempt. "Really, gentlemen, this
whole afternoon should go on record as the proceedings of a
kindergarten. Just think what rot we've had: Lonnegan promises a poor
workingman a job and takes to his heels to cheat him out of his pay;
Marny, who, like Mac, poses as a philanthropist, and claims to feed the
hungry and clothe the naked, refuses shelter to two half-drowned
tourists who come up to see the sunrise, and instead of hustling round
to get 'em hot tea and grub, he posts his big brother in a corner with a
gun where he can blow the tops of their heads off. Rot--all of it! But
what I object to most is the 'let-down' at the tag-end of each of these
yarns. You work up to a climax, and nothing happens. Just like one of
these half-baked modern plays we've been having--all the climax in the
first act, and a dreary drivel from that on till the curtain drops. I
expected Marny's yarn would taper off in a hand-to-hand death struggle;
both men thrown over the cliff; the finding of their mangled bodies,
impaled on the trees, by the sheriff, who had tracked them for years,
and who promptly identified both scoundrels, one as 'Dead House Dick'
and the other as 'Murder Pete'; a vote of thanks to the two heroes by
the State legislature, one of whom, thank God! is still with us"--and he
bowed grandiloquently at Marny--"and a ring-down with a beautiful,
unknown woman, supposed to be an heiress, creeping in at twilight to
weep over their graves, all the stage lights turned down and a low
tremolo going on in the orchestra. Tamest, deadest lot of twaddle I've
heard around this fire! Now let me tell you a yarn that _means_
something. Blood this time--red blood. None of your dress-suit and
warmed-up tea and toy-pistol adventures."
Everybody straightened up in his chair to get a better view of Boggs.
The Chronic Interrupter was about to appear in a new role. The speaker
opened his coat, tossed back the lapels as if to give his plump body
more room, and rose slowly to his feet, his black diamond-pointed eyes
glistening, his lips quivering with suppressed merriment. It was evident
that Boggs was loaded to the muzzle; it was also evident, from the
unusual earnestness of his manner, that he was about to fire off
something of more than usual importance.
"No preliminaries, mind you. Right to the spot in a jump. This happened
in Stamboul the winter I made those sketches of the mosques."
Mac looked up, an expression of surprise in his face. He thought he knew
every act of Boggs's life from his cradle up--they being bosom chums.
That Boggs had even been in the East was news to him. Boggs caught the
look and repeated his opening in a louder voice.
"In Stamboul, remember, across the Galata from Pera. I had finished the
flight of marble steps and entrance of the Valedee, and was looking
around for another subject, when a Turk with a green scarf around his
fez (that showed he'd been to Mecca), who had been keeping off the crowd
while I painted, offered to carry my trap to the Mosque of the Six
Minarets up in the Plaza of the Hippodrome. A man who has been to Mecca
is generally to be trusted, so I handed him my kit and followed his
lead. On the way to the plaza he stopped beside a low wall and pointed
to an opening in the ground. I looked down and saw a flight of stone
steps.
"'This is not for the Effendi to paint,' he said, 'but it is something
for him to see. It is the great underground cistern where the water was
kept during the sieges.'
"That suited me to a dot--caverns always appeal to me--and down I went,
followed by the green fez. Down, down, down, into a big vaulted chamber,
the roof supported on marble columns running back into the gloom, only
the nearby ones in relief where the light from the opening above fell
upon their white shafts, very much as a forest looks at night when a
torch is lighted. Stretching away was a dirt floor, uneven in places,
and away back in the half-gloom I could make out the surface of a great
pool. Now and then something would strike the water, the splash
reverberating through the cavern.
"When my eyes became more accustomed to the darkness I could see men
moving about, dragging ropes, and beyond these a dull light, like that
from a grimy cellar window. This, the Turk said, was the other exit, the
one nearest to the Mosque of the Six Minarets; the men, he added, were
rope-makers; some of them lived here and only left the cisterns at
night, as the daylight blinded them. So I followed on, the Turk ahead,
my kit in his hand.
"In the centre of the enormous cavern, half-way between the light of the
street opening above the steps and the distant cellar-window light, I
came to a circle of big stone columns standing close together, enclosing
a space not much bigger than this room of Mac's. They were of marble and
rather large for their height, although it was so dark that I could not
see the roof distinctly. At this instant one of those indefinable
chills, which with me always foretells danger, crept over me. I called
to the Turk. There was no answer; only the sound of his feet, but
quicker, as if he were running. Then a feeling took possession of me of
someone following me--that's another one of my safeguards. I turned my
head quickly and caught the edge of a man's body as it dodged behind the
column I had just passed. Then a head was thrust from around the column
in front, then another on the side--rough looking brutes, bareheaded and
frowzy. There was no question now--the Turk was their accomplice and had
led me into this trap. These fellows meant business. Not backsheesh, but
murder, and your body in the pool!" Here Boggs's manner became more
serious. The suppressed smile had vanished.
"I was better built in those days than I am now," he continued in a
graver tone; "not so fat, and could run like a sand-snipe, and it didn't
take me long to decide what to do. To reach the staircase was my only
hope.
"I whirled suddenly, struck the brute behind the rear column full in the
face before he could raise his hands, sprang over his body, and ran with
all my might toward the light at the foot of the staircase. If you
thought you were running, Lonnegan, up that long street, you should have
seen me light out. It was a race for life over an uneven pavement, where
I might stumble any moment, four men pursuing me, then three, then one.
I could tell this from their footfalls. The light grew stronger; I
turned my head for a second to size up my opponent. He was younger than
the others, was naked to the waist, and wore only a pair of trunks. His
bare feet made hardly a sound. I was within fifty yards now of the
lower step, running like a deer, my wind almost gone. If I could reach
that and bound up into the daylight, he would be afraid to follow. The
light footfalls came closer; he was within twenty feet of me; I could
hear his heavy breathing and smothered curses. My foot was now within a
few feet of the steps; one spring and I would be safe. I put forth all
my strength, miscalculated the bottom step, and fell headlong on the
steps! The next instant his body struck mine with the impact of a tiger
falling upon his prey, flattening me to the steps and grinding my lips
into the sand covering the stones--I can taste it now. His fingers
tightened about my throat. In my agony I braced myself and rolled over,
partly throwing him off. Then my eyes lighted on a long curved knife
with a turquoise-studded handle. A man notes these things in a moment
like this. I minded even a spot of rust on the blade.
"Again his fingers tightened; my breath was going. That peculiar
swelling of the tongue and dryness which sometimes comes with fever
filled my mouth. The knife was now tightly gripped in his right hand,
his fingers twisting my shirt collar into a tourniquet. I straightened
my back, gathered all my strength, and lunged forward. The knife
flashed, and then a horrible thing happened!"
[Illustration: Again his fingers tightened; my breath was going.]
Boggs stopped and began mopping his face with his handkerchief. The
memory of the fight for his life seemed to have strangely affected him.
No one of the coterie had ever seen him so stirred, and no one had ever
dreamed that he could tell a story with so much real dramatic power. In
the few moments in which he had been speaking the room was almost
breathless except for the tones of his voice.
"Go on, Boggs, don't stop!" said Lonnegan.
"In the struggle for mastery the point of the dagger pressed against my
heart. There came a sudden lunge--Oh, I guess, boys, I won't go any
further; I never like to think of the affair. I'd no business to tell
it; always affects me this way."
"Yes, go on; served the brute right," spoke up Mac.
"I tried, of course, to avoid it, but I was powerless. The knife went
straight through my own heart, and I fell dead at his feet. That
afternoon they threw my body in the pool. I have lain there ever since."
The listeners, one and all, glared at Boggs. The surprise had been so
great that for an instant no one found his tongue. Then the fireside
rang with shouts of laughter.
Lonnegan got his breath first.
"Boggs," he cried, "you are the most picturesque liar I know."
"Yes, Lonny, I guess that's so; but I gave you fellows a _thrill_, and
that's what none of you gave me!"