Chapter XXI: Nick Becomes Chauffeur

“Don’t shoot!” pleaded the detective, cringing before the pointed gun; “for Heaven’s sake, don’t shoot!”

“What do you mean by sneaking into this room?” demanded the man, making a threatening gesture with the revolver.

Nick thought he recognized the voice.

It sounded strangely like the tone assumed by the man from Montana, through the phone.

“My wife and family are starving,” said Nick, in a choking voice; “I can get no work, and they must live.”

“Bah! What do I care for your wife and family? You can’t ring in a bluff of that kind on me, not on your life. You’re a common, ordinary, go-as-you-please sneak thief, and right here is where you are going to get it in the neck!”

The man took a sidestep to the left, still holding the gun on Nick, and reached his left hand toward the push-button above the speaking tube.

“Oh, don’t, sir!” implored Nick, wringing his hands. “Let me go! I beg of you to let me go!”

“Shut up, you coward!” gritted the man. “If you had any nerve about you, I might be tempted to cut you loose; but I haven’t any sort of use for a sniveling, chicken-hearted coyote like you are showing yourself to be.”

His hand rested on the round piece of wood that framed the push-button, but he did not ring the bell.

Nick gave vent to a hollow groan, sank to his knees, and covered his face with his hands.

“Look here, you!” growled the man with the gun. “You’re pretty well dressed for a man working this sort of graft.”

“I’ve seen better days,” sniffed Nick.

“Bother! Better days don’t count. It’s what you are to-day, not last week, or last year. What do you call yourself?”

“My real name do you want, or the one I have been going by?”

“The one you go by now.”

“Chuffer Jones.”

The man with the gun gave a start.

“Chuffer!” he exclaimed. “You mean Chauffeur, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why were you called that?”

“Because of my trade, sir.”

“You know how to run these automobiles?”

“That used to be my business. But I took to drink, sir, and lost job after job. Then I took to this graft.”

“What’s your record?”

“It’s terrible, sir.”

“How terrible?”

“Five years in Sing Sing and ten in Stillwater.”

A gleam had come into the murky eyes of the man with the gun.

“I suppose you know,” said he, “that I could jab this button and have the house policeman up here in about two minutes.”

“Mercy!” gasped Nick, all but tying himself up in a knot.

“Oh, brace up, brace up!” grunted the other. “Haven’t you got any sand at all?”

“How much sand do you expect a man to have when he’s caught red-handed like this?”

“You ought to back your legitimate amount of nerve, no matter what happens. You know, I suppose, that I could send you up for quite a spell for what you have tried to do here this afternoon?”

“In the name of----”

“Will you hush that yaup?” said the man with the gun, exasperated.

“But if you knew----”

“I know you’re a sneak thief, and that I’ve got you dead to rights. Understand? Now, if you want to do the right thing, there’s a chance for you to square yourself with me.”

“What is it?” cried Nick, eagerly.

“First, hand over that leather.”

The detective forked it over.

“Take anything else?”

“Didn’t have time.”

“Well, young man, my name is Leonard Martin. I’m from Chicago, and I’m touring New England with three friends of mine, traveling in one of these auto cars. The machine belongs to me, but I haven’t the first notion how to run the thing. One of my friends knows the ropes, but he was taken sick a day or two ago, and will be hung up here for quite a spell. Now, if you want to run the Red Spider for me----”

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” mumbled Nick, with another contortion.

“You whining fool!” growled Mr. Martin, testily, “will you shut up?”

“Yes, sir; yes, sir!”

“Then, if you want to save your scalp, you can drive the Red Spider for me.”

“All right, sir.”

“That is,” qualified Martin, “if you can. I’m going to try you right now.”

Once more he reached out his left hand, and this time he pressed the bell.

“Order the Red Spider around to the office entrance,” he called down the tube.

Turning away from the wall, he again addressed himself to the detective.

“I’m taking you into my employ, Jones,” he went on, “but at the first sign of disloyalty I shall turn you over to the police.”

“I understand, sir.”

“Try to run away from me, and I’ll have you hounded down if it costs me every dollar I’ve got in the world.”

Nick shivered.

“And another thing,” went on Martin, “you’re to let whisky alone. There’s a time for lushing, as for everything else, and when I’m ready to have you booze, I’ll let you know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come on, then. And don’t forget that I’ve got this right here, ready for use.”

Martin thrust the six-shooter into his hip pocket with a flourish, and Nick had another shiver.

They passed out into the hall and downstairs to the office.

At the counter Martin halted for a word with the clerk.

“How’s that man who got shot?”

“Poorly, sir, poorly,” replied the clerk.

“Will he be in bed long?”

“He may never leave his bed, Mr. Martin.”

“Tough, mighty tough,” mused the kind-hearted Mr. Martin, and passed out to his waiting auto.