The Golden Age of Pulp Fiction MEGAPACK ™, Vol. 1: George Allan England. George Allan England

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