The Neer-Do-Well | Page 7

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 by 'phone. They're holding the wire outside. I'll
show you the booth."
"Oh, will you?" Kirk Anthony's hands suddenly shot out and seized the
masquerader by the throat. The man uttered a startled gasp, but
simultaneously the iron grip of Marty Ringold fell upon his arms and
doubled them behind him, while Kirk gibed:
"You'll get me outside and into a telephone booth, eh? My dear sir, that
is old stuff."
The rest of the party were on their feet instantly, watching the struggle
and crowding forward with angry exclamations. Ringold, with the
man's two wrists locked securely in his own huge paw, was growling:
"Smooth way to do up a fellow, I call it."
"All the way from St. Louis for a telephone call, eh?" Anthony sank his
thumbs into the stranger's throat, then, as the man's face grew black and
his contortions diminished, added: "We're going to make a good waiter
out of you."
Jefferson Locke broke in excitedly: "Choke him good! Choke him!
That's right. Put him out for keeps. For God's sake, don't let him go!"
But it was not Kirk's idea to strangle his victim beyond a certain point.
He relaxed his grip after a moment and, nodding to Ringold to do
likewise, took the fellow's wrists himself, then swung him about until
he faced the others. The man's lungs filled with fresh air, he began to
struggle once more, and when his voice had returned he gasped:
"I'll get you for this. You'll do a trick--" He mumbled a name that did
not sound at all like Jefferson Locke, whereupon the Missourian made
a rush at him that required the full strength of Anthony's free hand to
thwart.
"Here, stand back! I've got him!"
"I'll kill him!" chattered the other.
"Let me go," the stranger gasped. "I'll take you all in. I'm an officer."
"It's a lie!" shouted Locke. "He's a thief."
"I tell you I'm--an officer; I arrest this--"
The words were cut off abruptly by a loud exclamation from Higgins

and a crash of glass. Kirk Anthony's face was drenched, his eyes were
filled with a stinging liquid; he felt his prisoner sink limply back into
his arms and beheld Higgins struggling in the grasp of big Marty
Ringold, the foil-covered neck of a wine bottle in his fingers.
The foolish fellow had been hovering uncertainly round the edges of
the crowd, longing to help his friends and crazily anxious to win glory
by some deed of valor. At the first opening he had darted wildly into
the fray, not realizing that the enemy was already helpless in the hands
of his captors.
"I've got him!" he cried, joyously. "He's out!'
"Higgins!" Anthony exclaimed, sharply. "What the devil--" Then the
dead weight in his arms, the lolling head and sagging jaw of the
stranger, sobered him like a deluge of ice-water.
"You've done it this time," he muttered.
"Good God!" Locke cried. "Let's get away! He's hurt!"
"Here, you!" Anthony shot a command at the speaker that checked him
half-way across the room. "Ringold, take the door and don't let
anybody in or out." To Higgins he exclaimed, "You idiot, didn't you see
I had his hands?"
"No. Had to get him," returned Higgins, with vinous dignity. "Wanted
to rob my old friend, Mr.--What's his name?"
"We've got to leave quick before we get in bad," Locke reiterated,
nervously, but Anthony retorted:
"We're in bad now. I want Padden." He stepped to the door and
signaled a passing waiter. A moment later the proprietor knocked, and
Ringold admitted