The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction Megapack 01

by George Allan England

  “Some baby, eh?” inquired the young man, with approbation.

  “Oh, boy! Two men to crank her—one to throw her an’ the other to hold his hand over the intake—an’ throwin’ her was a Sandow job, or a Gotch, at that. You had to pump up the gas by hand, every few miles, when the pump was working, which it most usually wasn’t, an’ then you’d stall till you got her patched. An’ no emergency. Only a foot brake; an’ one time she busted her universal on the downgrade in a traffic-jam. An’ maybe I didn’t sweat blood, skiddin’ her through—but she coasted right to a garage an’ stopped outside, an’ all they had to do was come out an’ haul her in!”

  “So you sold her, did you?” interrogated the horn spectacles. “Unloaded her on some sucker?”

  “Did I? But wait till I tell you some more about her. She had her faults, even when I got her, a-plenty. But travel? Say! I never did dare open her up, full. When she really got goin’—an’ sometimes she could be started in less ’n fifteen minutes—why, there wasn’t no such things as hills to her. She went wild, simply wild over hills. An’ on the level stretches she dusted ’em all, Just a gray streak. Zowie! Never needed no horn, nor nothin’. Make a noise like a pewmatic riveter on a jag. Hear her two-mile off. Some boat!”

  Jimmy Dill puffed smoke-arrows, heavily, and nodded strong confirmation. The serious-looking man’s interest seemed growing ever greater. Dill continued with enthusiasm:

  “Liz was good, ’spite of all her kick-ups, till last spring. Then she slumped sudden, though she still kept flyin’. She was a flyer, even if she begun to show signs of bein’ junk. Tires begun to go bad, with a slow leak in one that we couldn’t fix, noway—all wearin’ down, an’ no more o’ them bolted-on kind to be had. One lug of her cylinder-casin’ cracked off, too. That was bad. Supposin’ another went, while she was doin’ sixty, an’ the engine dropped out? Flowers for yours truly.

  “Magneto went on the blink, too, an’ cylinders wore crooked, so oil worked up, an’ she’d only run a few miles hittin’ on four. Then she begin coughin’ till you’d clean the plugs again. Who the devil can clean plugs every five miles? Her feed got leakin’, too, so you couldn’t pump her up without lamin’ yourself. An’ her gearshift busted, some way or ’nother, so for a while she’d only run on low—I once brought her home, sixteen mile, on low—an’ then all of a sudden she’d only run on high. After a lot o’ tinkerin’, we got her to run on low an’ high, but no second. An’ boy! The times I used to have, tryin’ to coax her from low to high!

  “I begun to think I’d have to scrap her. But it was only after her radiator blew out, while I was to Ellengone out in the country, an’ I had to plug it with chewin’ gum, an’ then she took to back-firin’, an’ I had to be towed in by a fliv, on the end of thirty foot o’ barb-wire that we cut off’n a farmer’s fence, that I phoned Levitsky.

  “Levitsky, the junkman, come an’ said fifty beans on the hoof, as she stood. I was strong for the fifty, but Bill Hemingway, friend o’ mine—he’s in the garridge business, Bill is—says I can maybe do better. So I canned Levitsky an’ put an ad in the paper, no price set. An’ several guys come an’ give her the o.o., an’ then blow. Till at last this here wise duck, sent by this here Robinson, arrives.

  II.

  “I HAS LIZ already runnin’ an’ I’m loaded for bear, when he shows up, ’cause he’s already phoned me he’s comin’, an’ I’m not takin’ no chances on not bein’ able to start her. It’s kind of noisy, down by the Alarm Cafe, with lots of electrics and et cet, so Liz don’t sound so awful conspicuous. She’s all washed an’ polished, anyhow, an’ that’s half a sale. The wise duck gives her the up-an’-down, an’ then he says, says he:

  “‘Demonstrate her, will you?’

  “‘Demonstrate is my middle name,’ says I. ‘All goods strictly as represented, or no sale. I wouldn’t take a dollar of any man’s money on no false misrepresentations,’ I says. ‘Money back if not sound an’ kind. Get right in, mister, an’ we’ll hop to it!’

  “So the wise guy gets in, an’ I prepares to make Liz do or die, or perish in the attempt.

  “I has her all loaded for bear, o’ course, like I said before. Got enough gas pumped inta the tank on the dash to last her five mile, an’ the plugs all clean, an’ tires all pumped hard—I’m prayin’ harder than the tires is, they won’t blow—an’ I got a new set o’ batt’ries in, an’ got her wired so that when I let on to throw her onta the mag., she’ll still be on bats. The mag.’s out o’ commission, total.

  “An’ I has her on the stiff down-grade front o’ the cafe, so she’ll slip from low inta high, without makin’ no kick-up. So that’s all right. So he’s gets in, the wise duck does, an’ away we blows.

  “Half-way down the grade, I shift her an’ get away with it, O. K. The noisy street camouflages the kick-up in the engine so it ain’t very raw. I pushes her out onta the boulevard, an’ lets her out, an’ boy! Does she hike? Some! The wise duck has to take his dicer off an’ hold it in his lap, to keep it, an’ the way we passes everythin’ is a wonder.

  “So far, it’s pie with ice-cream on top, but my heart’s in my mouth about the big hill. Everybody always has to go into second, on that doggone hill, you see, an’ Liz ain’t got no second. I try to turn off toward the beach road, but the wise duck says, ‘No, let’s try her out on the hill,’ so that’s all off. So I decides I’ll try to rush the hill, an’ trust to prayer an’ luck, when flap-flap-flap somethin’ begins goin’, on her right hind leg.

  “‘What’s that?’ asks the w. d., anxious.

  “‘Oh, nothin’,’ says I, easy-like. ‘She’s maybe picked up a piece o’ hoop, or a lath, or somethin’.’

  “‘Better stop an’ have a look, hadn’t you?’

  “I’m sweatin’ blood. If I stop, I can’t never make that hill, an’ if I don’t, Lord knows what’ll bust. I takes chances—there ain’t nothin’ else to do—an’ charges the hill. Man! How noble old Liz answers me! Up an’ over she goes, full lung-power, an’ straightens out on the level again. Whew! But there’s more sweat on my manly brow than what the thermometer could account for!”

  “You had a hard time disposing of your bunch of fossilized pig-iron, on a guarantee to return the money if not as represented, didn’t you?” inquired the gentleman with the horn glasses, a bit cynically. “Your narrative interests me, decidedly. What happened next?”

  “Next? Oh, after we’re over the top, I stops Liz on a good startin’ grade, jumps out, an’ finds one tire’s gettin’ ready to lay down on the job an’ die. There’s a long strip o’ rubber, loose, that’s been whackin’ against the mudguard. I yanks it off, drops it in the road an’ climbs back, smilin’, though my heart’s half-dead, ’cause that there tire’s liable to blow worse ’n a whale, any old time, an’ I got no spare.

  “‘Well, what was it?’ asks the w. d.

  “‘Oh, nothin’—piece of a barrel-hoop,’ says I.

  “‘Puncture?’

  “‘Naw! These here tires is puncture-proof, anyhow,’ I says, an’ away we slides, again. But all the time I’m watchin’ the speedometer careful an’ anxious, ’cause if my five miles o’ gas runs out, I’m done. So, pretty soon, I rounds back towards town, again. An’ now Liz begins to skip. Three’s all she’ll hit on.

  “‘Hello,’ says the w. d. ‘What now?’

  “‘Nothin’ at all.’ I assures him, smilin’ confidential. ‘Dirty plug. That don’t signify. Ain’t been cleaned in six months. She’s some little bearcat to travel, ain’t she?’

  “The duck allows she is, an’ so there’s no more said. I’m prayin’ hard we’ll reach the cafe without no traffic hold-up. If I ever have to go inta low, I’m done. Once she’s on low, on level ground, you couldn’t get her inta high with dynamite. But Liz’s luck holds. Nothin’ jams us. An’ so, pretty soon, there we are again, back front o’ the cafe, with her nose downhill. I makes a snappy stop with the foot brake an’ crams her wheel against the curb, to hold her from runnin�
� away.

  “‘Why don’t you put on your emergency?’ asks the duck.

  “I only scorns him.

  “‘Emergency, nothin’!’ says I. ‘No such animal, on this boat. She’s a racin’ car, stripped light. I thought you said you was hep to cars, tires to top!’

  “That settles the duck. He climbs out, puts on his hat, shoves his mitts down in his pockets, an’ looks wise.

  “‘Well, mister,’ says. I, ‘can she travel, or can’t she?’

  “‘She sure can, but—’

  “‘Is she some classy boat, or ain’t she? What?’

  “‘Classy is right,’ he answers, while Bill Hemingway, who’s been layin’ in the offin’, so to speak, lays off from layin’ in the offin’ an’ lays alongside. Bill assumes a flankin’ position, to reinforce me. ‘She’s classy, speedy an’ all that,’ the duck says, ‘but—well—’

  “‘No well to it!’ I interrupts, lookin’ at my watch as if I had a dozen dates. ‘You gotta talk turkey to me, right off the bat. I got six offers, already. There’s only one one boat like this here, in the world,’ says I, which is strictly true, ‘an’ it’s the lucky man that gets her,’ which is what I call a flight of imagination. ‘She’s liable to be gone in an hour. What’s your best offer?’

  “‘Hundred an’ fifty,’ says the w. d.

  “My mouth’s just openin’ to yell: ‘Gimme it!,’ when Bill, he horns in with: “‘Nothin’ doin’!’ His tone’s indignant. ‘I guess not! Nix on the one-fifty. Say, I wouldn’t let my own brother have it for no such slaughter price!’

  “‘What’s your lowest?’ asks the w. d., anxious.

  “I’m just goin’ to bust inta tears an’ fall on my knees, implorin’ Bill to keep out an’ not grab me from drawin’ down three times what Liz is worth even for junk, but he elbows me out. The duck squints at Liz, an’ then says, says he:

  “‘I’m not buyin’ for myself, you understand, but for a friend o’ mine, name o’ Robinson. What’s your very lowest?’

  “‘Name a figure yourself,’ says Bill, cool as one o’ my frozen puddin’s. ‘You know the car. You’ve had a full demonstration, an’ she’s all as represented. She’s just as you see her, an’ no comeback if purchased. Ever see a boat any classier?’

  “‘Oh, she’s good, all right.’

  “‘As an expert, now I ask you, is she the goods or ain’t she?’

  “‘She can travel, I admit. She’s certainly there!’

  “‘Name a figure!’

  “‘One sixty-five, an’ that’s the last cent I’ll go!’

  “‘Mister, you’ve bought a car!’ says Bill, holdin’ out his hand. ‘Congratulations!’

  “Somethin’ kind of seems to rise up an’ cloud my sight, like I was faintin’. When I comes to, gets my eyes open again an’ catches my breath—when I comes up for air, you might say—the duck is diggin’ up eight new twenties an’ all. I’m still gaspin’, like, but Bill shoves me into the camouflage, or the background, or somethin’, while the duck climbs inta Liz.

  “‘Good luck,’ says Bill, wavin’ his hand, as Liz slides away down hill. ‘Here’s hopin’ Robinson will find her sound an’ kind, an’ be as glad to get her as we’re glad to do him a favor an’ let him have her. I congratulate you on havin’ bought the only car in the world like her—the only original Liz. Good luck an’ goodby!’

  “Away the duck goes, down the hill an’ round the corner, with Liz still hittin’ on three an’ the slow leak bringin’ one front tire nearly flat, an’ now an’ then back-firin’ like a Krupp. An’ that’s the last I ever see or either the Duck or Liz. I never sees Robinson, nor hear of him, neither. He’s a game sport an’ a good loser, I’ll say that for him. Ain’t he? What?”

  The young man in the striped suit nodded, grinning. The man with the horn-glasses looked very thoughtful, very grave. A little silence fell in the smoking-compartment, while from the engine sounded a long whistle, announcing an approaching stop.

  “Great stuff!” suddenly exclaimed the young man, with enthusiasm, as he slapped his knee. “That’s the best put-over I ever heard, in the boat line!” He turned to the man in the horn glasses. “Well, what d’you think of it? You don’t seem to fall for it very strong, do you?”

  “No, I don’t,” answered the man in the horn spectacles. “As a matter of fact, I’m Robinson!”

  III.

  The man with the pompadour stared vacantly. His jaw dropped.

  “Good night!” he cried. “You?”

  “I have that honor, sir.”

  “Go on! You ain’t the guy that the wise duck bought Liz for?”

  The gentleman with the horn glasses drew out his card-case, looked it through, chose a card and presented it.

  “At your service,” he answered.

  He of the pompadour read:

  WILLIAM F. ROBINSON

  Attorney-at-Law

  27 Pearl St., Boston

  For a moment, the blankest silence fell that had ever permeated that smoking-compartment. Then Pompadour gulped, wiping his brow with a tremulous hand:

  “Good night! I—I sure spilled the beans that time!”

  “The beans, sir, are certainly spilled,” answered Horn Glasses. “The entire pot-full. And that is not all. Now that I know the complete inside story of the infamous fraud perpetrated on me, the same constituting a clear case of obtaining money under false pretenses, I call on you to make complete restitution, or suffer the consequences!” His eyes were severe, through the big glasses. Impressively he tapped the leather-covered arm of the divan. “The car is worthless, absolutely and entirely worthless. Junk, indeed, and nothing else. I was obliged to sell her for such. I received but forty-five dollars for her. Your story, sir, has been heard by witness. Do you wish to settle with me privately, or would you rather have me take the matter into court?”

  “I—I guess I’d rather settle, but—”

  “Very well, sir. The sum of one hundred and twenty dollars will liquidate your indebtedness.”

  “But I—I ain’t got that much on me!”

  “How much have you, sir?”

  “Ninety-two, sixty!”

  “Very well. I will be reasonable. I will accept ninety dollars in complete settlement of all claims. Otherwise—well, matters must take their course.”

  Jimmy Dill passed a hand up over his pompadour, then, resigning himself to the inevitable, pulled out his billfold and paid up. Horn Spectacles very gravely pocketed the money. Then, as the brakes began to grit,; he reached for his suitcase; stood up; and putting on his hat, left the car.

  Dill, in a collapse against the cushions, feebly shook his head.

  “Can you beat it?” he whispered huskily. “Goodnight! Can—you—beat—it?”

  IV.

  As the train pulled out of the little way station, Horn Spectacles stood gazing after it, with a smile.

  “Not too bad, for a casual bit of business,” said he contemplatively. “Ninety beans don’t grow on every bush, but a little ‘bush’ seems to have produced ninety. Some cinch, eh?

  “Good idea to carry a full assortment of cards, comprising all the more common names. A man in my line of high-grade confidence specialties never knows when one or the other will come in handy. Now, for instance, if I hadn’t just happened to have a card with the name ‘Robinson’ on it, this flier in junk couldn’t have been pulled across, and I’d have been out ninety.

  “I wonder who Robinson really was, though, and what happened to Liz?

  “I wonder!”

  THE SILO

  Originally published in Argosy-All Story.

  I.

  The roaring of the eight horse-power gasoline-engine and of the voracious ensilage-cutter, out there in the yard, blending with the windy chatter of the cut corn as it skittered up the pipe and whirled down into the dark silo, masked the coming of Lucky Ruggles. Pownall swung up from broadcasting a shovelful of ensilage that he had dug out of the swiftly growing mound under the pipe, to f
ind himself confronted by the man he feared and hated more than any in this world.

  Ruggles grinned, and spat tobacco. An absurd figure to be afraid of—a slouching hobo, with an old cloth cap on, a long black coat possibly stolen from some scarecrow, and torn trousers tucked into a pair of worn out high boots that a farmer’s wife had given him. A weak figure, unshaven and watery-eyed; but packed with potential dynamite for Pownall, none the less.

  “Hello, there, Powdy!” the hobo greeted the proprietor of the farm. He swaggered a little, with dirty hands deep in trouser pockets, and scuffed his boot-toes into the soft ensilage. “Glad t’ see me, ain’t you? An’ I’m sure glad t’ see you! This is my lucky mornin’. They’re all lucky mornin’s to Lucky Ruggles. That’s me!”

  Pownall could only stare, with fallen jaw. The in-whirling fodder, shot down from the curved pipe high aloft, flicked him with bits of corn-leaf and stalk. At his side, now that he had stopped shoveling, swiftly rose the pile of chopped corn. Only unceasing toil with the shovel and with trampling feet could keep it level in the silo.

  “Well, ain’t you glad to see an ole friend like me?” demanded Ruggles, squinting with that evil, watery eye. This eye gladdened at sight of his victim’s fear. Not even the vague light from the hole in the roof, where the pipe came through, could mask the lines and hues of terror on Pownall’s bearded face.

  “How—how the devil did you git here?” stammered Pownall. He raised the shovel as if to strike.

  “Lay off on that rough stuff!” commanded Ruggles, his stubbly jaw stiffening. “You ain’t never gonna hit me, see?”

  “Git outa here!”

  “When I’m damn good an’ ready! I didn’t come here to—”

  “You got no right on this here farm. Git!”

  Ruggles only laughed.

  “You got the nerve, I must say!” he gibed. “After what I’m wise to about you! Now, looka here, mister. I’m gonna have a little privut talk with you, see? We got a few minutes all to our lonesomes. This here’s a swell place fer a privut talk, ain’t it?” He glanced appraisingly about the silo. “Nobody seen me come. Nobody knows I’m here. So it’s all hunky-dory. Some luck, hey?”