The Neer-Do-Well | Page 6

yellow, his hands trembled, his lips went dry. He half arose from his chair, then cast a swift look about the room. His companions were too well occupied, however, to notice this by-play even when the waiter continued, in a low tone:
"He slipped me a ten-spot, so I thought it must be something worth while."
"He--he's alone, you say?"
"Seems to be. What shall I do, sir?"
Locke took something from his pocket and thrust it into the fellow's hand, while the look in his eyes changed to one of desperation.
"Step outside and wait. Don't let him come up. I'll call you in a minute."
Ringold was recounting his version of the first touchdown--how he had been forced inch by inch across the goal line to the tune of thirty thousand yelling throats and his companions were hanging upon his words, when their new friend interrupted in such a tone that Anthony inquired in surprise:
"What's wrong, old man? Are you sick?"
Locke shook his head. "I told you fellows I'd been followed this evening. Remember? Well, there's a man down-stairs who has given the waiter ten dollars to let him have his coat and apron so he can come in here."
"What for?"
"Who is he?"
The men stared at the speaker with a sudden new interest.
"I'm not sure. I--think it's part of a plan to rob me." He let his gaze roam from one face to another. "You see--I just came into a big piece of coin, and I've got it with me. I'm--I'm alone in New York, understand? They've followed me from St. Louis. Now, I want you boys to help me dodge this--"
Kirk Anthony rose suddenly, moving as lightly upon his feet as a dancer.
"You say he's below?"
Locke nodded. It was plain that he was quite unnerved.
Ringold rose in turn and lurched ponderously toward the door, but Kirk stepped in front of him with a sharp word:
"Wait! I'll manage this."
"Lemme go," expostulated the centre-rush. "Locke's a good fellow and this man wants to trim him."
"No, no! Sit down!" Ringold obeyed. "If he wants to join us, we'll have him come up."
"What?" cried Locke, leaping nervously from his chair. "Don't do that. I want to get out of here."
"Not a bit like it." Kirk's eyes were sparkling. "We'll give this fellow the third degree and find out who his pals are."
"Grand idea!" Higgins seconded with enthusiasm. "Grand!"
"Hold on! I can't do that. I've got to sail at ten o'clock. I don't dare get into trouble, don't you understand? It's important." Locke seemed in an extraordinary panic.
"Oh, we'll see that you catch your boat all right," Kirk assured him; and then before the other could interfere he rang for the waiter.
"Give that chap your coat and apron," he ordered, when the attendant answered, "and when I ring next send him up. Pass the word to Padden and the others not to notice any little disturbance. I'll answer for results."
"I'm going to get out," cried the man from St. Louis. "He mustn't see me."
"He'll see you sure if you leave now. You'll have to pass him. Stick here. We'll have some fun."
The white-faced man sank back into his chair, while Anthony directed sharply:
"Now, gentlemen, be seated. Here, Locke, your back to the door-- your face looks like a chalk-mine. There! Now don't be so nervous-- we'll cure this fellow's ambition as a gin-slinger. I'll change names with you for a minute. Now, Ringold, go ahead with your story." Then, as the giant took up his tale again: "Listen to him, fellows; look pleasant, please. Remember you're not sitting up with a corpse. A little more ginger, Ringie. Good!" He pushed the button twice, and a moment Later the door opened quietly to admit a medium-sized man in white coat and apron.
Had the young men been a little less exhilarated they might have suspected that Locke's story of having been dogged from St. Louis was a trifle exaggerated; for, instead of singling him out at first glance, the new-comer paused at a respectful distance inside the door and allowed his eyes to shift uncertainly from one to another as if in doubt as to which was his quarry. Anthony did not dream that it was his own resemblance to the Missourian that led to this confusion, but in fact, while he and Locke were totally unlike when closely compared, they were of a similar size and coloring, and the same general description would have fitted both.
Having allowed the intruder a moment in which to take in the room, Kirk leaned back in his chair and nodded for him to approach.
"Cigars!" he ordered. "Bring a box of Carolinas."
"Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Locke, sir?" inquired the new waiter.
"Yes," said Kirk.
"Telephone message for you, Mr. Locke," the waiter muttered.
"What's that?" Anthony queried, loud enough for the others to hear.
"Somebody calling you