An Albert Payson Terhune Reader

By Albert Payson Terhune and Rodney Schroeter

Albert Payson Terhune wrote hundreds of stories showing an understanding of the hearts and souls of dogs. The 27 stories herein, meticulously reclaimed from their 1910s and 20s pulp magazine sources, demonstrate Terhune’s equally perceptive insightfulness into the minds and motivations of human lives, in a way that is still touching, relev

• Language: English
• Publisher: Silver Creek Press
• Release date: Dec 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9780996719421

Book preview

An Albert Payson Terhune Reader

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With the original illustrations from the source publications

Compiled by Rodney Schroeter

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Silver Creek Press

2015

The Coney Island Riddle

Chapter I.

An Odd Quest.

SIT still! Don’t speak! Look straight in front of you.

Now, I defy any man on earth to hear a low-voiced command like that without starting.

I started. In fact, I jumped.

But the voice broke sharply upon my involuntary motion.

Sit down! it repeated, a ring of anger in the low-pitched tone.

Instinctively I obeyed, but it was not in mortal nature to obey the order to look straight in front, when the voice came just behind me.

I turned.

I was sitting on a bench by the Battery Park sea wall. My day’s work—my week’s work—was over. It was Saturday afternoon. I was a stranger in New York.

I had been in the city only a week, and I had spent that week in hard work. Now that the half holiday had come, I did not quite know how to spend it.

I had left the office at one o’clock, eaten a dairy lunch, and then had strolled aimlessly southward down Broadway.

The day was broiling hot. The streets were almost burning to the feet. The high, cañonlike walls of the sky­scrapers reflected back the heat waves. Not a breath of air was stirring.

The street was packed with hurry­ing men. I alone, it seemed to me, had nowhere to go. The patch of green at Broadway’s end had caught my eye. I had strolled into Battery Park, and had sat there watching the blue waters.

All New York and its myriad places for summer outings—places of which I had dreamed a thousand times in my small-town home—lay around me. Yet I sat there, homesick, puzzled, un­decided where to go for a holiday.

Just then I had heard the voice.

I stared about, in growing bewilder­ment. On near-by benches lounged an immigrant or two and a few loafers. But surely none of these had addressed me.

Directly behind me stood a little port­able tool house of green matchboard. The sort that the park workmen shift from place to place, according to their needs.

If the voice came from mortal lips—which I was beginning, rather creepily, to doubt—its owner must be in that tool house.

I got to my feet, meaning to go around to the door on the opposite side or else to shove back the green-shut­tered window nearest me. But the voice halted me in my tracks.

Sit down! it commanded again. Sit down, and look straight in front of you!

I hesitated. It was not wholly pleas­ant to be ordered about like a trick dog by some one I could not see. As I stood, irresolute, the voice continued in a different key:

If you don’t obey the rest of Mr. Barham’s orders any better than this, you may as well go back to Vermont. There’s no future for you with Bar­ham & Cuyp. I give you that as a free tip, Mr. Arthur Dallam.

I sat down again with some haste. Not so much through any conscious impulse of obedience as through sheer amazement.

For, not only had the voice addressed me by my own name, but it had even spoken of the law firm where for a week I had been a clerk; it had re­ferred also to my eccentric employer himself.

This was beyond all possible under­standing. I knew not a soul in New York except my landlady and the one or two office acquaintances I had made. Yet—

That’s better! approved the voice. Now, listen to me. And, when you answer, speak low and without moving your lips.

Who are you? I muttered, controll­ing with difficulty my face and tone. What do you want? How do you know my name and the name of the firm where—

Where you are a clerk, and where you hope for a chance at the next vacancy for head clerk? finished the voice. It is my business to know things. It’s Mr. Barham’s business to know things. And he knows them. That’s why he’s one of the foremost lawyers in America to-day, as well as the most eccentric. If he were less eccentric I shouldn’t be talking to you now.

I suppose you think you know what you’re talking about, I made answer, but it’s Greek to me. If it’s a joke please—

I don’t make jokes. You came to Mr. Barham a week ago. You came well recommended. You had just been admitted to the bar. You wanted a chance in Barham’s office. He gave it to you and promised you quick promo­tion if you made good.

Yes, yes! But—

Barham is eccentric. But there is a point—and a keen one—to most of his eccentricities. He likes you. He likes your work. But he wants to test you to make certain you are the right sort of man for him. He has a way of test­ing employees.

Now, this was true. And I knew it. It was common talk among lawyers. Barham had many uses for his clerks and juniors. And he proved such men’s ability by odd methods that often seemed to outsiders absurd, but which, none the less, managed to show the met­tle that was in an employee. There were dozens of quaint anecdotes afloat concerning these tests.

So I’m to join the seemingly silly mystery of it all. What am I to do?

Unless you can manage to show more self-control than you did when I first spoke to you, was the answer, I’m afraid there is no use in your try­ing to do anything. You’d only fail. And Mr. Barham has no use for fail­ures.

I heeded the rebuke less than I should otherwise have done, because I was racking my brains to identify the voice. I knew now it must belong to one of my fellow workers at the Barham & Cuyp office. But I had known them all too short a time to fix the identity.

I will do my best, I said, a little sulkily, for I am not fond of mysteries.

Good, approved the voice. "Now, listen carefully: You will sit where you are for two minutes longer, look­ing out to sea, and not once turning around. Then you will get up. Under your bench you will find a satchel. I slipped it under there just after you had sat down. You will take it—without opening it—to Coney Island. There, at precisely nine o’clock to-night, you will give it to a man who will be waiting for it on the Concourse, just about one hun­dred yards beyond the spot where the Concourse merges into Surf Avenue.

This man, continued the voice, will be on the seaward side. He will be dressed in gray, and will have a short red beard. You cannot mistake him if you keep your eyes open. He will wear a white golf cap. Go up to him and say ‘Barham.’ If he answers ‘Cuyp,’ hand him the bag quietly and walk away. If he does not give the right answer, explain that you mistook him for a Mr. Barham; and keep on looking for the right man. Now, is that clear?

I am to go to a point on the Con­course—whatever that may be—on the seaward side, about a hundred yards be­yond a street called Surf Avenue. I am to be there at nine o’clock to-night, and to look out for a red-bearded man in gray clothes and a white golf cap. I am to say ‘Barham’ to him. If he an­swers ‘Cuyp,’ I am to hand him the bag. Well? What, then?

That is all.

All?

I am afraid my tone showed my dis­appointment. I had counted on some test of wit, nerve, or resource. And lo! I was being dispatched on mere messenger-boy work!

All this silly mystery and secrecy about the carrying of a satchel to Coney Island.

My unseen interlocutor seemed to read my chagrin.

I am sorry, sneered the voice, that Mr. Barham did not choose to select you to rescue some fair damsel from a dragon or to blow up the Sub-treasury or to kidnap the Statue of Lib­erty, instead of giving you such a hum­ble task; but I have found that he knows his business. If he has set you this task it is because, for some reason, the task is worth accomplishing. When you’ve worked for him as long as I have, you will begin to realize that he has brains. Almost as many as you, Mr. Dallam. Shall I go back and say you refuse?

No, I said curtly; I will do it.

On second thought, I saw the wisdom of his reproof. Who was I that I should question the plans of a genius like Barham? If he chose to regard this messenger-boy work as a test, I ought to be grateful that so simple a task had been assigned me.

Very good, commended the voice. Remember every detail. Guard that bag as if it held the crown jewels of England instead of waste paper and leaden weights. And speak to no one about your mission. Good-by.

It was hard, unbelievably hard, for me to refrain from turning and going around to the door of the tool house for just a glance at the man. But curi­osity had to give place to ambition. And I was ambitious to succeed. I meant to carry out every simple detail of the foolish test.

So I sat there, staring out over the sparkling bay. The day was hot, as I have said. Men sitting near me were nodding, or else sound asleep. I wondered—

Had I, too, dozed and dreamed this fantastic, improbable thing? Half con­vinced that I had, I got to my feet. I was almost ashamed to look under the bench for the bag the dream voice had spoken of.

Yet I did look. And there it was! A battered, yellow-brown leather half-size suit case. The sort people some­times take to the beach to hold their bathing suits, brushes, and towels.

I stooped and picked it up. It was heavy. Then I looked about for a Coney Island boat.

My test had begun.

Chapter II.

To An Unknown Land.

I had never been to Coney Island. So the wonder resort was completely unknown territory to me.

I knew no more where Surf Avenue or the Concourse might be than the whereabouts of some public square in Tibet.

I had a dim idea that one could reach Coney Island probably in an hour or so. It was not yet two o’clock. I was not due at the trysting place until nine. Yet I resolved to put in the extra hours in seeing the Coney sights.

I boarded the boat with a throng of people. They were of all sorts and conditions—from the tired, fat, shirt-waisted mother, with three noisy chil­dren, a picnic basket, and two sand pails, to the overdressed office boy and his perfectly attired best girl.

Candy butchers dived through the jolly crowd, peddling indigestibles to eat and drink. A trio of dark-faced musicians whanged popular airs out of tired-sounding string instruments.

Everybody was talking loudly, as a rule. Everybody seemed to wear a broad grin.

A frail-looking camp stool collapsed under a fat man’s weight, and the laugh that rose could be heard as far as the half-mile-distant shore.

Another man’s straw hat was whisked from his head and overboard by a va­grant whiff of sea wind; and the vic­tim served as target for a second laugh.

By some miracle I had secured a camp chair, during the wild scramble for those rare commodities. I also se­cured a place by the rail, fairly well forward, where the sea wind slapped my hot face and a girl’s hat feather gouged at my eyes.

I fell to watching the panorama of land and water as we sped southward, and the traffic that strewed the bay’s broad, blue breast. The bag was tucked safely between my feet, one heel jammed tight on each side of it.

I felt a trifle downcast. In this throng of pleasure seekers I seemed strangely alone. Everybody else appeared to be with a sweetheart or a friend, or was part of some jocose group. I was alone; and one can be as much alone in a crowd as on a desert island.

A tow-headed young man, with a flaring yellow-and-red tie, a checked suit, and vivid yellow shoes, was cross­ing the deck in front of me, trying to worm his way through the press toward the rail. A very fat man—the same whose chair had smashed—happened to turn suddenly, as the other passed. The two came into violent contact. The young fellow lost his balance under the shock, and would have sprawled head­long had I not caught him.

Thanks, bo! he remarked, nodding at me as he readjusted his hat, and then glaring murderously at the fat man. That human roundhouse sure gave me a jar.

Are you hurt? I asked.

Not much, I guess, he returned, rubbing one shoulder. My paint’s a bit scratched, but my cylinders seem to be all right.

Instead of continuing his journey across the deck, he calmly picked up a camp stool, from which another man had momentarily risen to greet a friend, whisked it over beside my own stool, and sat down beside me.

Alone? he asked.

Yes, I said.

Same here, he vouchsafed. Trav­eling to Coney all alone is ’bout as merry as watching other folks get Christmas presents.

Why did you come, then? I asked.

Me? Oh, I was pretty sure to scrape up an acquaintance with some one on the boat; I gen’r’lly do. I ain’t particular who I travel with.

The compliment was dubious, but I overlooked it. He continued:

So when I saw you sitting here like a man at a funeral I thought to myself: ‘Old Gloomy Gus needs cheering up.’ And as I’m one of our best little cheer­ers, I fluttered across. Ain’t butting in, am I?

No, I laughed.

There was something engaging about the chap, and his odd form of speech was new to my rural-bred ears.

Some folks, resumed my new ac­quaintance. Some folks say it’s dan­gerous to get into talk with strangers. Maybe it is, at that. I lost a watch that way once. But I don’t feel scared about talking with you.

Thank you, I laughed.

You see, he continued, I’m not wearing a watch to-day. By the way, my name’s Shayne. Bat Shayne. What’s yours?

Arthur Dallam, I told him.

H’m! he commented. While you was picking out a book name, why didn’t you call yourself Montmorency Cholmondeley, or something else with class to it? But a man’s got a right to any monaker he chooses, I s’pose. Go­ing for a swim?

I don’t know. Perhaps. Why?

I thought maybe you had bathing togs in that bag. Looks like it.

No.

No? Well, it’s none of my business, as you was about to repartee, but why else should a man lug a valise to Coney? I’d as soon think of wearing yellow shoes to a wedding. What’s the use of cluttering up your hands with a satchel? If ever you need both hands, it’s at Coney.

What for?

To hang on with. That bag’ll get in about seven hundred people’s way before you’ve walked a block, and by the time you’ve taken it along the line for the chutes and the scenic and the gorge, and the rocky road and Pike’s Peak, and a few other hang-on-for­-your-life stunts, it’ll be more in your way than a reformer at a prize fight. Always carry it when you go to Coney?

I’ve never been to Coney Island be­fore, I confessed.

He turned square about and stared at me, wide-eyed.

Well, I’ll be eternally and teetotally frazzled! he gasped, at last. You ain’t stringing me?

No, I’m—

What branch of the Tall Timbers did you let loose of, when you fell into little old New York? he asked. Never been to Coney? Say, bo! I’m a bird at picking winners. And this time I’ve picked the star of the whole bunch. Gee, but I’m glad I tied up to you, brother. It’ll be more fun than a dogfight in school to do Coney with a greenhorn. We’ll see the el’phant and we’ll hear the owl. Those eyes of yours will tumble sideways out of your face at the things you’ll see. How are you fixed?

Fixed?

Yes. Got a kickful of iron men, or only working the pike end of it?

Once more, please, I begged him, and this time say it in English.

I asked you, he explained, with the bored patience of one teaching a stupid child, if you’re flush or broke. If you’re going to hand it out in bunches or going to squeeze Lincoln’s face off every time you spend a cent.

Oh, I see. I’ve got about twelve dol­lars with me, and—

For twelve bucks, a man that knows the ropes can buy all Coney and have it shipped to his home address. I’m kind of glad I met you, son. There’s the Promised Land! he broke off, pointing.

In the interest of our talk I had for­gotten to watch the shore. Now I saw we had swung around a long finger of sand spit and were approaching a line of gaudy and garishly shaped buildings that rose out of a stretch of yellow sand and split the blue sky line in a marvel of fantastic silhouettes.

And, out to greet us, came a veritable rush of sounds—bands and orchestrions in fifty keys and a hundred tunes; the noise of many voices, the shouts of bathers, the cries of venders and barkers.

The City of Pleasure glowed white and rainbow-hued in the torrid sun­light. A rush of sea air and a line of snowy surf flashed against it. To my unaccustomed senses there was a thrill, a sparkle, an indefinable atmos­phere of mirth that swirled around and over and through the whole place.

The stir of it all infected the pas­sengers on the boat, whose earlier gayety had begun to die down. There was a rush for the gangway.

I stood up. Some one, passing, brushed my camp stool aside, and it fell with a clatter. Instinctively I turned to look at it. As I did so, the people surged eagerly forward, for the boat was warping in to the long pier.

The jostle almost swept me off my feet. I was carried on with it for several yards before I could brace my­self to make headway against that laughing, pushing, roughly happy crowd.

Then, as a sudden idea flashed across my brain, I plunged through the mass with the speed and brute force of a football player, scattering indignant people to left and right, my elbow driv­ing fiercely into one man’s ribs, my raised forearm thrusting another fellow aside, my mad haste barely allowing me to escape collision with women and babies.

For it had dawned upon me that the bag—the bag on whose safe-keeping my hopes of advancement all hung—had been at my feet when I was shoved backward, and that now it was either being trodden under foot or had been stolen by some unscrupulous passen­ger.

I regained the spot, as well as I could figure, where I had been sitting.

No trace of the bag.

As well look for a needle in the tra­ditional haystack as for a mere half-length suit case in that whirlpool of humanity.

It was lost! And through my own heedlessness. Was there ever such luck?

Chapter III.

Lost And Found.

Through the fast-emptying boat I ran like a madman, upsetting chairs, running against people, deaf to protests and growls; searching everywhere for that wretched bag.

I peered in corners and under benches. I glared suspiciously at every one who carried a parcel of any sort. I asked questions; then hurried on without waiting for a reply.

The bag was nowhere to be found!

I cursed my lot. I, who had scoffed at the simplicity of Mr. Barham’s test, now saw my own folly in a pitiless light.

I had longed for a chance to make good. And now—

I found myself on the pier, still rush­ing back and forth aimlessly, like a lost dog, looking at every one and seek­ing a glimpse of the thief.

I ran into one man blindly. He caught my arm and shook me. I turned on him, eager for a chance to vent my rage and self-contempt on somebody. But, as I turned, I recognized him.

It was Bat Shayne, whose existence I had wholly forgotten in the excite­ment of the past few minutes. He still held my arm, and grinned quizzically into my scared face.

What’s your hurry? he drawled. This ain’t the way to get the fun out of old Coney. If you run around much longer in circles you’re liable to catch up with yourself.

Let me go! I panted, pulling free. I’m looking for—

For this, by any chance? he asked, holding up my bag.

With a groan of utter relief, I snatched it from him and clutched it as though it were a life preserver.

It’s real cute of you to thank me so polite, he observed. Bless you for them kind words.

Excuse me! I said, in tardy re­morse. I do thank you. More than I can say. How did you ever find it?

You’d left the bag laying there. I picked it up for you. I tried to give it to you. But the only times I could get sight of you you were running around bowling over everything that wasn’t stationary. I couldn’t catch up with you. So I came down here and waited till—

What a wall-eyed fool I am! I laughed.

And then some, he amended. I’d hate to see you in a real scrape. You’d be like old Al Fitzpatrick, who fell into the horse trough and yelled out: ‘I’m all right. I can swim. But save the women and children!’ Say, bo, that bag must be pretty valuable, from the way you hug it. Full of diamonds or just stuffed with measly little piker govern­ment bonds?

Neither, I answered. It holds nothing more important than my chance of promotion.

If that’s a riddle— he began doubtfully.

It is, I answered, but I don’t know the answer.

We’re wasting time, said Bat, evi­dently giving up any effort to solve my puzzling speech. Here we are. There is Coney. Let’s get together. How about a swim before we take in the sights?

The bag, I protested.

You’d look fine giving it a surf bath, he returned. But they knew you was coming. So they built a place where you can check it.

I don’t like to let the bag out of my hands, I demurred.

Why, folks check tons of joolry at those bathing joints; and wads of bills that a goat couldn’t carry on his back. It’s as safe as a jail. Say, bo, where are you taking the silly bag, anyhow? Or did you just bring it along for com­pany?

I am taking it to a man I am to meet here at nine o’clock, I answered guardedly.

And you’re taking a running start by bringing it here at four? Gee, what a stunt to make a man do on his after­noon off!

I am not made to do it, I con­tradicted. I do it of my own ac­cord.

Your own accord? he echoed. You lug that heavy thing around all day when you don’t have to? Why, man, it’s as foolish as coaxing a mos­quito into your room!

Come on! I said, half ashamed. I’ll check the bag, anyway, while we have our swim.

We left the pier, and found ourselves, in a few minutes, on the busiest, oddest, noisiest street I had ever seen. Broadway was a suburban lane by contrast.

People in gay attire thronged and pushed. Barkers and hucksters shouted. The smell of frankfurters, fresh pop­corn, and other eatables was heavy on the sultry air.

Hot-dog venders cried their wares. At open booths men pulled red and white and green candy by machinery. Souvenir shops, stores of every garish sort; merry-go-rounds and other places of amusement lined the sidewalks. Down the center paraded wagons with the signs of attractions painted on them. Everywhere was the blare of music.

What street is this? I asked Shayne.

Surf Avenue, he told me.

Anywhere near the Concourse?

Nope. That’s way up east, toward Brighton. Why?

I just wanted to know, I evaded, making mental note of the direction, against the time I should deliver the bag there to the messenger.

See that big, bare, charred place up there? To the right and eastward? That was Dreamland. That’s all there is left of it. Gee, but that sure was some fire! At night, too. Made all the sky look like a pink veil thrown into a pail of ink. I could see it from New York. I feel kind of sad when I think of that dandy white tower all gone to blazes. I pulled wires for three years to get a season pass to Dreamland. At last I got it. Next day the whole thing burned down.

We had reached the bathing pavilion. There I checked the bag, together with my watch and money, putting the two last-named articles in a big manila en­velope and writing my name across the back.

I received in exchange a numbered metal tag on a thick rubber band. I fol­lowed Bat Shayne’s example of putting this band around my neck, feeling just a little like a licensed dog as I did so.

It was my first swim in surf; and it was so gloriously exhilarating that I stayed in the water for a full hour. To an inlander like myself there was an unspeakable charm about the sting­ing slap of the breakers and the swirl of foam and green water.

At last, dragged almost bodily from the sport by Shayne, who was blue-lipped and chattering, I ran up the gangway with him toward the rows of dressing rooms.

Get a good rubdown, Bat exhorted me, as we hurried along; then climb inside your clothes as quick as you can. After that, we’ll get warmed up by swatting the hammer game a while. Its a big mallet, and you hit a cushion with it; and if you hit hard enough the bell rings. I’ve seen strong men who couldn’t make that bell ring and I’ve seen cripples that could. It’s all a trick, a knack. Throw all the strength and weight and force into the last six inches of the stroke. I studied that out for myself.

In ten minutes I was dressed, and standing by Bat’s side at the Valuables window. I turned in my num­bered tag, and in return got the en­velope containing my watch and money. Then the attendant went to a set of larger compartments, and returned with a satchel which he shoved across the counter toward me.

It was a half-length suit case. But, at first glance, I saw it was not mine. It was newer, and of a different shade of brown.

I pushed it back.

You’ve got the wrong bag, said I.

Only bag in that compartment, he replied; and that’s the number your check calls for.

It’s not mine! I insisted angrily.

It’s the one your check calls for, repeated the man, with some impatience.

Take it and step aside. You’re block­ing the line.

I tell you, I cried, it’s not mine.

What’s up? queried Bat. Are you in the allooring rôle of trouble hunter again?

There’s been a mistake! I declared, sick at heart. This man has given me the wrong satchel. I—

That’s what t’other fellow said, put in a boy who was lounging near by, waiting for some slow-dressing com­panion who had not yet appeared.

What’s that? I demanded, whirling about to him.

A guy in a gray suit, white golf cap, and red whiskers came here after his swim, said the boy. That was maybe five minutes ago. The man at the window shoved him a bag. The red-whiskered chap said ’twasn’t his. The window man said it was, and wouldn’t hear ‘no’ to it. At last the feller with the whiskers takes the bag and says ‘It isn’t mine, but it cannot be worth any less, for mine’s got noth­ing but an old extra bathing suit in it. So I’ll take this, since you won’t give me my own.’ And off he goes.

I s’pose the attendant got the two bags in the wrong pigeonholes, sug­gested Bat. They look alike, and any one—

You say, I broke in, turning to the boy, as a memory flashed across me, you say he had a red beard, a white golf cap, and a gray suit?

Yes. He—

I waited for no more, but bolted wildly from the pavilion, leaving the other bag behind me.

Apparently the very man to whom I was to deliver the original bag at nine that night had accidentally come into possession of it. And I meant to scour Coney Island until I should find him.

I had been intrusted to hand him the bag at the Concourse and Surf Avenue at nine that night. And I intended to do it, even if I had first to take it away from him. I knew he would probably remain in Coney Island until then, as he was to meet me at nine. And I in­tended to carry out this latest item of the involved affair.

Call me a fool if you will; but all my temper and determination were up. And I was not going to confess myself beaten without a fight.

Chapter IV.

Still In Quest Of Trouble.

What’s the mad rush this time? queried Bat Shayne, as he caught up with me. The bag again?

Yes. I must find it.

Looks more to me like you must lose it. Losing that bag is getting to be a habit with you.

I must find it, I repeated. It means everything to me. I must find it and give it, at nine to-night, to a man who—to the man who has it now.

You talk like a man in a cave! he snorted. Are you dippy, or only just sunstruck? A man’s got it, and you’ve got to find him and give it to him? Ain’t you afraid of meeting yourself on such a fool errand?

Briefly, as I hastened along, scan­ning every face, I told Bat Shayne the whole story. From time to time, as I talked, he looked sideways at me, as though seeking some hidden joke.

But my manner must have convinced him, for as I finished he said:

You’re up against it, son. As far as I can see, the test ends here and now. You were told to give the bag to that man at nine o’clock. It isn’t six yet, and he’s got it already. What more is there to do?

To fulfill the test, I answered dog­gedly.

But—

I’m going to find that man and get the bag from him. I’m convinced he doesn’t know it’s the same one he was to receive from me at Surf Avenue and the Concourse. Otherwise he would not have demurred when the attendant at the baths forced the bag on him. In any case, my test required me to give him the bag at a certain place, at a certain hour. I mean to do it.

Take it from him and hold it till nine p. m. and then hand it back? It don’t make a terrible lot of sense. But I get your idea; and I kind of like you for it. There’s a few better things than sense, in this old world. And one of ’em is grit. I’m going to help you, if you’ll let me.

Thanks, old man! said I, in real gratitude.

Two heads are better than one, he went on, especially when one is a trouble hunter’s head. Maybe the two of us can run across him somewhere. It’s a hundred-in-one shot, but we’ll try it. I know Coney pretty well. Alone, you’ll get lost and tangled up in no time.

But, I demurred, you came down here for a good time. It isn’t fair to spoil your outing by making you—

Spoil my outing? he echoed. Why, bo, you’ll be giving me the outing of my life. I can stroll down the Coney line any old time. But it isn’t every day I can be runner-up in a trouble hunt. Even if we don’t find the measly bag, we’ll have the fun of looking for it and for the gent with the crimson alfalfas and the white lid. And if we do find him—Gee, it’ll be more fun than a catfight in jail to watch you try to separate the guy from his satchel. Oh, cut out the cold, cold fear of spoiling little Reginald’s day. You’re handing me the time of my life. Now, we’ve pretty well glanced over Surf Avenue. S’pose we take a turn at the Bowery and then drop into the parks. He’ll be in some of those places most likely.

There is no need to go into weari­some detail as to the events of the next few hours. To me, they are a sickening, confused memory. We scoured Coney Island’s tumultuous streets, its restau­rants, its parks. Everywhere we stared until our eyes burned for a man with red beard, white cap, and gray suit. Thousands of gray suits we saw, a few red-bearded men, and two men with white golf caps. But never the right combination at the same time.

Day had turned into night—the noisy, blaring, glaring, garish Saturday night of the vast summer resort. The streets and parks were packed. Fast move­ment became impossible. As the crowd thickened I realized more and more the rank hopelessness of my search. Yet, ever, my stubborn determination made me press on, regardless of throbbing head, aching feet, and tired body.

I had been so ambitious to do well at the Barham & Cuyp office. My chance had come. There might never be another. And I was not going to give up, so long as one spark of life or hope remained. Meantime, my watch’s hands crept relentlessly on to­ward the hour of nine—the hour which would mark the death knell of my high hopes.

We strayed into a big amusement park, which, in view of what befell us there, I will not name. It was our third visit to the place in three hours. The park was crowded and unspeakably bright and gay. A hundred amusement enterprises were in full blast.

The chutes sent boatfuls of squeal­ing people whizzing down the long in­cline and splashing into the miniature lake. The scenic railway’s roar was mingled with the cries and delighted yelps of passengers as each steep dip sent the car plunging downward.

An open-air animal show was draw­ing a crowd. A miniature railway with a baby engine bore groups of children through mysterious tunnels on a narrow-gauge track.

The Old Mill boats were massed at one end of a tiny artificial stream. People would board the boats and be pushed off into the darkness; into a suc­cession of wonder scenes and dense gloom.

This amusement device somehow ap­pealed to me rather than some of the more spectacular sports. In spite of my haste and worry, I hated to glance a second time at the boats and at the little knot of waiting people.

At the moment there chanced to be very few persons patronizing the mill boats. A lion in the animal show near by had taken into its head to give an exhibition of roaring. And the hideous sound had drawn most of the floating crowd to the spot, leaving adjacent sports ill-attended.

I glanced carelessly at the mill. Then, with a cry, I ran headlong toward its inclosure, followed by the puzzled, vain­ly questioning Bat.

For, stepping toward the foremost boat, I caught a glimpse of a gray-suited man, wearing a white golf cap. A slight motion of his head showed me his profile. He had a pointed beard, vividly red, and in his hand he carried—a half-length suit case!

I wasted no time explaining or in­specting. I was almost afraid the fellow might vanish into thin air. Past the entrance to the mill I dashed, leav­ing the pursuing Bat to pay for both of us.

Fast as I ran, I never once took my eyes from the object of my search. I saw him step lazily into the first of the waiting flat-bottomed barges. He was its only passenger. As he got aboard I noted a second man—taller, heavier, clad in blue serge—hurry forward and grab at the bag carrier’s shoulder.

The grasp fell short, and the other did not even see that some one had tried to stop him. He went straight on, into the boat, and seated himself in the center thwarts.

The man in blue serge stepped into the boat in pursuit. The red-bearded man glanced up, took one look at his pursuer, then, without a word, ducked nimbly under the blue-serge arm and at one bound was out of the boat, leav­ing the bag behind him on the seat.

The man in blue stooped to snatch up the bag before chasing his escaping victim. At this moment, I, having reached the boat, bounded aboard and grabbed the bag.

The impetus of my jump almost up­set the man in blue. It also jarred the boat loose from the attendant’s boat hook.

Freed, the light barge plunged into the tunnel, borne on the strong cur­rent. The attendant on the bank, with a yell, jabbed for it with his boat hook, and missed it.

Into the underground darkness we swirled, the strange man and I grap­pling together furiously for the bag.

Chapter V.

Fight In The Dark.

It was an odd situation, had either of us had time to consider it. But neither of us had. Here were we, two men who, until a minute earlier, had never seen each other, fighting desper­ately in the utter blackness of a hand­made underworld, for possession of a bag whose contents I thought neither of us knew.

The Old Mill boats are broad, flat, and almost shapeless. They are built to glide along a rapid stream that is almost no wider than themselves, through a succession of twists and mazes, until at last they come out at their starting point.

A fleet of these boats are launched in succession. No pilot or attendant is aboard them, as there is ordinarily no danger of hitch or of upset, and as the current carries them safe to their des­tination.

The banks of the tunnel are inter­spersed, here and there, in the dark­ness, by electric-light grottoes wherein weird or pretty figures are displayed. Fairy-book scenes or little flower gar­dens are shown.

In the blackness we fought silently, the big man and I. He was taller and his weight was greater. But I was younger and had won something of a local repute as a college athlete. Moreover, my sudden onslaught had taken him by surprise. So the fight was not as one-sided as it might seem.

I had leaped aboard and had seized the bag. The jar of my feet landing in the bottom of the boat had not only wrenched the barge away from the de­taining clutch of the boat hook; but had thrown the blue-serge man off his bal­ance. Nevertheless, even as he fell, he kept his hold on the bag. And I had much ado to keep from losing my own grip on it.

He regained his feet, and sought to tear the suit case away from me. I hung on like grim death, and strove in turn to wrench it away from him.

The boat swayed and pitched dan­gerously under our stamping feet and swaying bodies. To keep one’s equilib­rium in such circumstances was difficult indeed. Back and forth we reeled, tug­ging, twisting, striking. I have seldom imagined a less scientific, more awk­wardly haphazard combat.

After my hours of despair, worry, and vain search I would no sooner have relinquished my hold on that miraculously discovered suit case than I would have relinquished the privilege of breathing. My opponent seemed equally determined, and he fought like a wild cat, speaking no word, wasting no time in argument or threat. We were simply like two primitive men battling murderously in the bowels of the earth.

It never once occurred to me in the excitement of the moment to question or try to explain the scene I had wit­nessed between my foe and the man with the red beard.

I did not even wonder who this big newcomer might be or his possible reason for seizing the bag, nor why, at sight of him, the other man had fled like a scared rabbit.

All that concerned me just then was to get back that bag and to be, with it, at the trysting place by nine o’clock.

After hours of despair, the possibil­ity that I might yet succeed in the test, and win promotion, put new life in me. Here was a chance to atone in full for my earlier carelessness and ill luck. It was my last chance, too, and I meant it should carry me to victory.

To and fro we staggered, clawing at the bag’s slippery sides, smashing wildly with doubled fists, in the dark­ness, at each other’s bodies.

A twist of the tunnel brought us mo­mentarily into a dazzling brightness. We were passing a grotto with spangled sea nymphs posing on mica rocks, under a bunch of arc lights. We became, thus, for an instant, visible to one another. I could see the red, tense face of my adversary, and I struck fiercely at it.

A lurch of the boat as we entered a new area of gloom sent my fist blow whizzing past his broad shoulder. The motion enabled him to wrench the bag from my free hand. He whirled the suit case behind him with one hand, while with the other he rained blows at me as I sprang forward.

I threw my arm about him in a high football tackle, his fist grazing my cheek stingingly as I grappled with him. My onrush threw him again off his bal­ance. He threw back one foot against the stern of the boat to brace himself. The bit of carved wood, against which his heel struck, snapped under the shock.

Backward we reeled, close gripped in each other’s arms. The boat slipped forward, and together my foe and I tumbled into the abyss of racing water behind the stern.

We were overboard, and again in pitch blackness.

Chapter VI.

Into Nothingness!

Into the swirling water we fell with a mighty splash.

After the heat of the tunnel and of our fight, the water seemed icy cold. It made me gasp and strangle, this sudden, involuntary bath.

But it did not make me loose my grip, nor did my enemy loose his. Dimly I realized that he was grasping me with but one arm. So I knew instinctively that he was still hanging onto the bag with the other.

Into the water, I say, we fell. Entangled in each other’s furious em­brace as we were, we could not swim a stroke. This, I felt, must mean swift drowning. But I was too full of the rage of battle to heed this. Drowning or no, I would not cease my quest of the bag.

Then—ridiculous anticlimax—it dawned on me that we would not drown at all; for we were rolling about in the water less than two feet deep!

The current was strong, and dashed over us. But the artificial stream was just deep enough to float the flat boats.

My foe realized this, I think, almost as quickly as did I. For he scrambled to his feet and, bag in hand, sought to dash down the shallow channel to the far-off entrance.

But before he had taken two strides I was upon him. And again we fought, this time in a slippery wooden river bed with the water churning about our ankles.

With my left hand, I caught the bi­ceps of his free arm. Then, with my right I struck, using my full force and sending my shoulder after the blow.

My fist caught him somewhere on the lower jaw, dazing him. He reeled backward, dropping the bag.

On the instant I was upon my knees amid the swish and rush of water grop­ing for it. My hand came into acci­dental contact with the wet leather handle.

I gripped it, got to my feet, and, at a step, had gained the narrow bank that lay between the water and the tunnel wall. The bag was once more mine, though water-soaked and battered.

Before I could decide on my next move, my foe had recovered his half-dazed senses. By the faint glow from a distant grotto he located me, and flung himself upon me.

I struck at him with the heavy bag; but he ran inside the blow, and gained a hold on my throat and shoulder.

My feet went from under me on the slippery bank, and together we crashed backward with terrific force against the solid wall of the tunnel, just as once more I whirled the bag aloft and struck.

To my amazement, the wall gave way, as my shoulder banged backward against it. The bag, this time, had caught my adversary squarely on the top of the head and brought him to his knees like a stunned bull.

But I had no time to do more than vaguely note this, for, the tunnel wall collapsing behind me, my own impetus hurled me, satchel and all, through the aperture and out into—what?

A section of the wall had broken down, with a rending, crackling sound, precipitating me through the hole. I felt myself falling—about three feet. Then I landed with a soft bump in a heap of sand.

I picked myself up, grasping the bag, and stared dazedly about me. Above, the moon was shining. This, and the Island’s distant street lights, showed me I was in a sandy, vacant lot—a sort of back yard of the park.

In front of me stretched away a low, snakelike building of some sort, with boarded sides. A newly made gap in these boards showed me where I had fallen through.

Then I understood. The snakelike, twisting structure was the exterior of the Old Mill tunnel. I had hit against the inner side and the thin boards had given way.

I was dripping wet from head to foot. I glanced at my watch. It was still going. Four minutes before nine.

I heard a sound from within the tun­nel. Then I saw the man in blue serge trying to force his greater bulk through the narrow opening my body had made.

I waited no longer.

I turned and fled; climbed a fence, found myself in an alleyway, and thence dashed out into Surf Avenue. I still had two minutes’ time in which to keep my tryst. And I meant to keep it.

Toward the Concourse I dashed, running madly down the center of the street, dodging vehicles, scattering the people afoot.

Chapter VII.

At The Meeting Place.

There are many wondrous and fan­tastic sights at Coney Island; yet I doubt if any of the local spectacles were queerer or more outlandish than was I as I raced eastward along the middle of Surf Avenue that night.

I was hatless, of course. My clothes were streaming wet. My crimson tie had run, and was sending a ruddy rivulet down the front of my white negligee shirt. My collar lay limp as a handkerchief. My shapeless boots squnched at every step.

Tight to my breast I hugged the soaked, dilapidated, little suit case, clasping it as a half back might hold the ball when bucking the opposing line.

People stopped to stare after me. Autoists honked an angry warning. Women laughed or screamed. Boys threw things at me. As I sped on, I heard one man drawl:

He’s advertising some show—the ‘Big Flood,’ or something like that.

Up Surf Avenue I tore, shoving, dodging, ducking, ever hastening at top speed. After an eternity—that proba­bly occupied little over a minute—I found myself within a step or two of the meeting place.

I dropped into a walk, and glanced at my watch. It still lacked thirty seconds of nine o’clock.

I was on time. I had fulfilled the test. It was no affair of mine that the other man was not likely to keep the tryst.

No, I had not the faintest, remotest idea that my man would appear.

Nor did I care in the very least whether he put in an appearance or not. My orders had been to be at that very spot with the bag at nine o’clock. I was there. It was nine o’clock.

I resolved to wait fifteen minutes or so, then go to the nearest telephone and call up the Oriental Hotel, where I re­membered Mr. Barham was spending the summer. I would notify him that I had carried out his commands, that his messenger had not appeared, and ask what he wished done with the bag.

I was not a little proud of my ex­ploit and grateful at the luck that had backed it. I had, twice that day, wholly and apparently hopelessly, lost the treasured bag. Twice by sheer good fortune I had found it again.

A third time I had fought for its possession as for