Motion Picture Story Magazine (Feb 1914 - Sep 1916 (assorted issues))

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114 GOING STRAIGHT men," went on the philosophic refiller, "nothin' is too good for 'em. I raymim ber onct But you're after buyhr th' lots, an' ye're talkin', not me." Remington, with so easy an introduction, pulled out his maps, showed where his client held an option on the lots adjoiningMcGroarty's, offered a price, and, after a fitting bit of haggling, closed the deal. As he passed thru the fog-rack of stale smoke in the rear room, Remington's face flushed with triumph. His commission would net him a good five hundred dollars, and there were little frocks and little shoes waiting to be filled, and that pretty, lacy thing that his wife so admired. • "Jake !" Remington stood stock-still, and his hands faced outward, ready to go above, his head. The spring-muscled man, in a cotton shirt, rose from his chair andraised his eyeballs ceilingward, with a singular, lateral movement to the right. It was dumb thief-talk, and Remington walked quickly over to the table and sat down. "Well?" "Dont you glim me, pal?" the husky voice asked. "No; who are you?" "I'm Jim — Jimmie Briggs." Remington half-closed his eyes, and a sharp little, pain-driven sigh came from him. "Yes, Jim." The tone of the words meant everything — recognition, fear, fight. "I jest got bounced from th' 'big house' — glomming rocks this time." He stopped abruptly and looked keenly at Remington. "Yes?" "An', nat'ally, I'm short o' kale." A host of twinkling little shoes on a lacy cloud danced before Remington's eyes, but he dug into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. "This will see you thru," he said, tonelessly ; "remember, we're quits." "Quits," echoed the ex-convict, fondling the bills, as Remington rose to go ; but the wolfish shine of his eyes, the clawing stroke of his hand, the fleer on his fish-white lips said as plainly as words, "I've got you ; you've got to pay till I bleed you to death." A very quiet John Remington sat at breakfast-table with his wife and his three "under-footers," the following morning, and a very dull companion spent that evening with his pretty helpmate on their vine-screened veranda. He sat facing the street, his face in a shadow, and every light footfall outside the hedge drew him up tense and listening. Grace Remington studied him carefully, guardedly. She knew trouble was in the wind, but it was not her place to speak of it first. And he knew that she knew, and stood ready to cry out and snap the tension that throbbed within him. "It's Jimmie Briggs," he longed to say, "who has spotted me and will never let up." And he knew what she would reply, and so kept silent. For the fear would sink deep into her, and she would be for a hurried departure, closing the house in a panic and getting away by stealth. As the night wore deeper and only friendly feet passed by — his jolly neighbor tacking home from the lodge, and the steady tramp, tramp of the policeman on his rounds — Remington breathed easier and smoked a guarded cigar. Perhaps, after all, he had given Briggs the slip. God knows, he had tried hard enough. From the Channel Street dive his retreat had been as tortuous as a frightened rabbit's : a dart into a secondclass hotel, with an immediate exit onto a side street; then a speed-limit-breaking taxi-ride out to the flat, untenanted country on the trolley line ; and lastly, a stiff grind home on foot, half-run, halfwalk, that set every alert muscle tingling. Pshaw ! if he had met Briggs, splendid athlete that he was, he would have tossed him over his shoulder into the meadows. "I closed that deal last night," he said aloud, suddenly, "and it means, little girl, that we can go away for a hardearned vacation/' "We need it, John" — her voice was almost as hoarsely guarded as his — "and the quicker we go the better." "Then it's settled, little girl. Pack your trunks tomorrow; mum's the word."