Motion Picture Magazine (Aug 1914-Jan 1915)

62 MOTION PICTURE MAGAZINE deal away t' Varing, blarst me eyes 'fldont!" The legal desert of the District Attorney's office blossomed as a rose, which is the author's pretty way of saying that Varing 's daughter, Mildred, age seventeen, was present. Of course she was pretty. All seventeenyear-olds are pretty. Having successfully engineered the transaction of a ten-dollar bill into her gold chatelaine, she was still prettier. In fact — but enough of Mildred for the present. She appears later on. As the officeboy admitted our old friend Shifty to the presence, Mildred gave one glance at the visitor's face, which must have been useful to him, but was far from ornamental, and fled homeward, which is the best place for seventeen-and-pretty young ladies. Her father showed hardly more fascination for his guest, but Shifty waited for no useless preliminary generalities. Bolstered by several whiskeys and the advice of his pal, Kern, he plunged at once into the subject of his visit. ' ' It '11 cost y er a century t ' git wise t' de whole gang o' gunmen. Dig. Plank. An ' I'm de guy ! ' ' As Varing regarded Shifty, it occurred to him that "to catch a thief" it was wise "to set a thief." Accordingly, he turned to the telephone, left word for his daughter that he would not be home until late and reached for his hat. A normal man, facing a grave crisis in his life, invariably acquires his hat first; afterwards, his nerve. Then he turned, grimly. "Come on," said the District Attorney. Spike Wardell leaned forward menacingly, as they lean forward in crook plays or underworld films. "We gotter get him," he hissed, "or it's th' prickly chair at Sing Sing f'r alio' us." Mug Murphy and Foxy Nichols looked about uneasily. They were ultra-modern crooks, and knew that walls have often not only ears, but dictographs. Wardell laughed sneer ingly. "Dere aint," said he confidently, ' ' a soul widin a mile. ' ' Crash! The three men paled and jumped with the skittish promptness of a conclave of mice at the approach of a cat. Simultaneously, three hands sought three pockets, each of which violated the Sullivan law. There was a show of cold steel. Motioning to Nichols to remain on guard at the inner door, the other two slid, with practiced noiselessness, into the hall. "So it's youse, y' d d squealer," shrieked Wardell. "I'll shut y' mouth f'r youse." Simultaneously, two pistol-shots clipped the air, followed by two thuds. Varing struggled now fiercely in the clutch of Spike Wardell. It was pitiable child's play. The law, as a profession, does not develop muscle, nor teach uppercuts to the jaw. Pinioned and helpless, he looked wildly about for his guide hither, but Shifty was gone, leaving a trail of blood behind. His revolver, one chamber blackened, lay on the floor beside the body of Murphy. "D' youse know wot's comin' t' youse ? ' ' leered Wardell, viciously, indicating the dead gunman. "I'm goin' t' git youse 'rested f'r croakin' dat guy." ' ' But you know I didn 't even have a gun." "Tell dat t' de cop, Mister Distric' Attorney," laughed the crook. "Say, I guess it'll be quite a spell byfore youse goes pokin' y' nose int' odder poiple 's affairs agin ! ' ' "Swear youse '11 toin bot' dose letters — over — t ' — de — ones ' ' Shifty Stone gasped. Chalk-white of cheek and hideously smeared as to coat-front, he clutched the edge of the table, looking up into Kern's frightened face. "S'help me, Shifty. But, say; lemme fix youse up — lemme call a sawbones " The wounded gunman smiled calmly. ' ' No good, ' ' he said, with the fatalistic stoicism of his kind; "I'm a