CHAPTER VIII
A PISTOL AND A PUNCTURE
Having, by soft speech, won his way out of that parlous plight, Mr. Connors was still wearily trudging the abandoned roads of the vicinity in search of succor. His own state of mind was not joyous. Thanks to Mr. Copewell’s wedding funds the financial phase of the case had been satisfactorily adjusted, but he was still anchored by responsibility until the man whom Fate had thrust upon him could be transferred to other and competent hands. And he was anchored, too close for safety, to the reform-infested city of Mercerville.
With these drear reflections he tramped along until he came upon another road. It seemed a somewhat more traveled way than the one he had left. Possibly it was the almost abandoned stage-road which in ancient days had linked Perryville with the east.
Mr. Connors extracted from his pocket a five-cent piece. Prior to the rifling of Mr. Copewell’s wallet it had been the only buffer between himself and destitution. He could go but one way at once. Heads should guide him east, tails west. Tails it was.
A turn in the highway brought him upon quick discovery. Confronting him at some distance glared twin eyes of bright light, throwing broad, luminous shafts along the road. “Oh, me mother!” ejaculated Mr. Connors in astonishment. “If it ain’t a benzine-buggy!”
Caution being the very soul-breath of Mr. Rat Connors’ policy, he did not approach the stationary motor-car conspicuously by the center of the road. Instead, he dropped into the deep shadow of over-hanging trees and made his way forward with the noiselessness of an Indian on a war-trail. He meant to see what manner of person piloted the car before he presented his demand for first aid to the injured. He advanced on his toes.
The automobile was empty. One of its tail-lights had been removed and placed on the ground. There it blinked, lighting the work of a solitary man who knelt on a folded robe, swearing—also mending a punctured tire. This man was coatless, smeared with grease, covered with dust and panting laboriously. His profanity was voluminous and capable as he struggled with the task of replacing an outer casing on a jacked-up wheel.
Mr. Connors did not at once emerge from the shadow. He knew that this car could not possibly proceed until that tire was replaced and inflated. He meant to ask a favor, and asking a favor carried with it a certain obligation to reciprocate. Mr. Connors had an idea that pumping up the tire of an automobile which looked like a baby battle-ship would involve a distasteful element of manual labor. The evening was hot and, on the whole, it might be as well not to interrupt this gentleman until he was through.
It pleased Mr. Connors to discover, after a careful reconnoiter, that the gentleman was absolutely alone. If he proved obdurate, and a gun-play became necessary, one man would cause less trouble than several. The frayed condition of the gentleman’s temper indicated that he might prove obdurate.
Mr. Connors cautiously drew his “cannister” from his pocket and tested trigger and hammer. If the lone wayfarer quietly accepted the charge of the “guy wid de busted slat” there need be no friction. If he lacked that large sympathy which should make him a willing rescuer, then he must have philanthropy thrust upon him. Mr. Connors meant to thrust it with the pistol. So he gave thanks that this was not a party, nor a couple, but only an unaccompanied chauffeur.
When the injured man should be safely stowed in the tonneau the trusteeship of Mr. Connors would terminate.
Then what? Life has its business exigencies even for those of us who are not materialists. Men who tour in motor-cars may be assumed to carry money. Why not first impress the gentleman into service and then relieve him of his valuables? Why should the doctrine of socialism apply as to the man who lay wounded and not as to this one who drove an automobile?
The man in the road rose with a sigh of relief. He stretched himself, adjusted the pump and bent to his labor again. Mr. Connors sat watching. At last that too was done. The lone motorist put away his tools and turned wearily. Apparently the sight of the car fatigued him.
As he did this Mr. Connors stepped out of the shadow and placed the muzzle of his revolver in impressive juxtaposition with the gentleman’s face. The gentleman had fancied himself alone. The discovery that he had been mistaken surprised him. It startled him.
“Let’s see you stretch your arms up high,” suggested Mr. Connors. The gentleman obligingly and promptly followed the suggestion.
“What is this, if I may ask?” he inquired. “Highway robbery?”
“Some of it is,” Mr. Connors assured him pleasantly, “an’ some of it’s ambulance service.”
“I’m afraid I don’t quite follow you,” admitted the traveler.
“Dat’s all right. You will foller me in about t’ree minutes,” replied Mr. Connors. “But before dat let’s see w’at youse got in yer clothes.”
The motorist offered no verbal protest. When one looks down a gun-barrel at one A. M. in a lonely road, silence is eighteen karat fine. This highwayman was carefully keeping a position just too far away for a clinch. At that distance the pistol gave him priority of rank and entitled him to issue orders.
“Get over dere in de light an’ turn your pockets out!” directed Mr. Connors. “T’row everyt’ing down here by me feet. If youse got a gun in yer clothes I wants ter see it come out wid the muzzle pointed de oder way! See?”
The gentleman saw. “I haven’t a gun,” he said.
“An’,” pursued Mr. Connors succinctly, “let’s be on de level wid each oder. Don’t let’s have no holdin’ back. I wants ter see de linin’s of dem pockets hangin’ outside. You looks prettier dat way.”
For a moment there was complete silence, while pocket contents showered on the grass at Mr. Connors’ feet. Mr. Connors secured for himself the gentleman’s coat, which hung over the tonneau door.
There is a distinction between tribute-levy and vandalism. Mr. Connors left letters and papers undisturbed, taking only currency and articles of intrinsic value.
Then, as they stood, with Mr. Connors unostentatiously in the shadow and the other gentleman in the full glare of the acetylene lamps, hands high and his pockets inverted, they heard a somewhat startled exclamation in the road. A young woman emerged suddenly from behind the car, carrying a bucket of water. The tableau had not greeted her eyes until she reached a point where the screening framework ceased to screen. Then it appeared to interest her greatly.
“Lady,” said Mr. Connors steadily, the pistol muzzle never wavering, “or ladies an’ gents, if dere’s a bunch of youse—please come round here an’ get in line an’ put your hands up. If anybody makes a false move, I croaks dis gent, an’ dat goes, see?”
The lady came forward and took up her station by the side of the man. In order to raise her hands she had to set down the canvas bucket with which she was burdened.
Standing in the acetylene spotlight the young woman struck Mr. Connors as supremely beautiful. He deplored the necessity of keeping her in a prisoner’s attitude and he admired the calm with which she endured the compulsion. Her eyes even seemed to be dancing a trifle as she looked at the somewhat abject Mr. Burrow.
“Please, Mr. Highwayman,” she naïvely requested, “would you mind if I poured some water into the radiator?” She added reassuringly: “It will keep both hands quite busy. The machine can’t go on until we do that, you know, and we’d like to get home—when you are entirely through with us.”
Mr. Connors considered the proposition.
“Go as far as yer like, lady,” he assented at last. “But let dis gent keep close ernuff fer me ter watch youse both. If his hands comes down, I’m afraid I’ll have to hurt somebody, see?”
As the young woman lifted the full bucket with a surprising strength for such slender arms, the gentleman assured her that he regretted his inability to assist. The young lady laughed.
“Dat will be about all fer dis part of de job,” said Mr. Connors. “Now fer the ambulance.”
“The what?” questioned the young woman.
“I’se sorry ter trouble yer, lady,” apologized Mr. Connors, “but it’s like dis: Dere’s a guy up de railroad track w’at’s got a busted slat. I’se got ter borrow your benzine-buggy ter take him ter a doctor.”
“Now see here, you infernal pirate!” The gentleman took one belligerent step forward and halted abruptly as he recognized how close it brought him to the ominous muzzle. “You’re asking too much!”
“Me?” questioned Mr. Connors in an injured tone. “I ain’t askin’ nothin’. I’m tellin’ yer w’at I wants done, an’ yer don’t need ter git fresh about it, see?”
“Is there really an injured man? Is this true?” asked the lady. Evidently she was willing to be reasonable.
“Honest ter Gawd, lady!” Mr. Connors spoke earnestly and his eyes wore their frankest appeal. “Dis guy is liable ter croak if he don’t git a doctor. He’s a pore skate. Meself, I don’t know him personally, but I’se sorry fer him.”
“Some disreputable drunk!” growled the gentleman savagely. “Some contemptible hobo like this man here.”
“It occurs to me,” suggested the young woman in a level voice, “that up to this point you have been very obedient to this person you call a contemptible hobo. At all events I’m not going to leave an injured man by the roadside. I’m going with this person. Do you care to come along?”
“Oh, he’ll come along all right,” Mr. Connors assured her. “I needs him ter run de car.”
The gentleman’s face went white with anger; then, as he turned his eyes on Mr. Connors, his expression grew quizzical, even amused, and a light of sudden recognition came to his pupils.
“Mr. Rat Connors,” he said with deliberate courtesy of address, “I congratulate myself that I have fallen under the bow and spear of so distinguished a crook as yourself. I retract the ‘contemptible hobo.’ I have just recognized you.”
“Mr. High-Brow Reformer Burrow,” replied Mr. Connors with instant promptness, “t’anks fer dem kind woids.”
“May I inquire,” purred Mr. Burrow, “how you knew me?”
“After you, after you!” returned the young gentleman modestly. “How did yer git hep ter me?”
“You see,” explained the Honorable Alexander suavely, “the Chief of Police was speaking of you this morning. He had a good deal to say about you.”
Mr. Connors grinned, as one whose greatness has been duly recognized.
“Will yer give me best ter de Chief? Will yer tell ’im I’m well an’ doin’ business an’ I hopes he’s de same?”
“I shall be honored to do so,” declared the Honorable Alexander gravely. “I shall also look forward with pleasure to a meeting when all three of us shall be present—you, the Chief and I. But you haven’t told me how you came to recognize me.”
Mr. Connors smiled broadly.
“Yer name was printed in gold letters on yer pocket-book—an’ I kin read.”
“Oh,” murmured Mr. Burrow.
Mr. Connors waved his weapon with a gesture of energy.
“Let’s beat it,” he suggested. “Dis busted-up guy’s liable ter git homesick.”