Part 11 (2/2)
There were gasps of alarm and sighs of relief. The driver of the truck swore audibly, but it was more a prayer than an oath. The colonel, grimy and muddy, was set on his feet by his rescuer, and several men gathered about. The colonel was a bit-dazed, but not so much so that he could not hear several murmur:
”He saved his life all right!”
Recovering his breath and the control of his nerves at about the same time, the detective, his voice trembling in spite of himself, turned to the man who had dragged him from almost under the big wheels and said:
”Sir, you did save my life! You saved me from a horrible death, and saying so doesn't begin to thank you or tell you what I mean. If you'll have the goodness, sir, to call a taxi for me, and come with me to my hotel, I can then--”
The colonel came to a halting and sudden pause as he saw the face of the slim little man who had saved him--a face covered with freckles, which were splotched over the cheeks, the turned-up nose, and reaching back to the wide-set ears.
”Spotty!--Spotty Morgan!” gasped the detective, as he recognized a New York gunman, who was supposed to have more than one killing to his credit, or debit, according as you happen to reckon.
”Spotty Morgan! You--you--here!” gasped the detective.
The rescuer, who had been grinning cheerfully, went white under his copper freckles.
”My gawd! It's you! Colonel--”
Further words were stopped by the detective's hand placed softly, quickly, and so dexterously as hardly to be seen by those in the crowd, over the mouth of the speaker.
”No names--here!” whispered the colonel in the big ear of the man who had saved him from death.
The slim little man gave a wiggle like an eel, and would have darted away through the crowd, but there was a vice-like grip on his shoulder that he knew but too well.
”Spotty, my name's Brentnall for the present,” said the colonel, with a grim smile. ”And you'd better come with me. How about it?”
Spotty Morgan hesitated a moment, nodded silently, and then, arm in arm with the man whom he had pulled from the path of the big truck, went down the street, the mist and rain swallowing them up.
CHAPTER V
AMY'S APPEAL
Tinkling gla.s.ses formed a friendly rampart between Colonel Ashley and Spotty Morgan. Spotty looked narrowly and shrewdly at the detective.
”I didn't expect to see you here,” remarked the gunman, speaking out of the side of his mouth, with scarcely a motion of his lips--a habit acquired through long practice in preventing prison keepers from finding out that he was disobeying the rules regarding silence. ”Not for a minute did I expect to run across you here, Colonel As--”
”Not that name, Spotty, if you please,” and the fisherman-detective smiled in easy fas.h.i.+on. ”You know my little habits in that regard.
I'm known here as Brentnall, and, if it's all the same to you, just use that. As for you, if Spotty--”
”Oh, that suits me as well as any other. I can change whenever I like.” Spotty raised a gla.s.s to his lips, and, with a murmured ”here's how,” let the contents slide down his always-parched throat.
”That's so, Spotty. Well, I didn't expect to see you here, I give you my word. When did you leave New York?”
”Well, I come away--”
”Hold on!” interrupted the colonel. ”Don't answer. I shouldn't have asked. I forgot you saved my life just now. Gad! it isn't the first time I've nearly pa.s.sed over, but--not in that way!” and he reached for his gla.s.s to conceal the shudder that pa.s.sed over him as he thought of the rumbling wheels of the thundering truck.
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