The Portrait of Jirjohn Cobb, page 27
“You got somep’n thar,” agreed the Sheriff thoughtfully, seeing well the reasoning there. He shook his head. “Well, I’ll be everlastingly goddanged now,” he said helplessly. “Public Enemy So-and-so—the brother o’ Public Hero Number 1! Oh, fur a newspaperman around hyar—fur a whole city-room full of ’em!”
The man in the legging-like boots was kneeling down now, at the overturned stone island-marker. Examining carefully the different gadgets which were screwed to the wooden base which itself was riveted to the underside of that thick flat stone. He had, in fact, the earphones down over his ears. And was listening—with an intent look on his face. He moved one earphone, only, off. Looked inquiringly—and quizzically—at the Sheriff.
“Jedgin’ from the expression on yo’re face,” said the latter dryly, “you hear so’thin’?”
“Right I do!”
The Sheriff looked amazed. “You do? What do you hear?”
“A sternwheeler broadcasting—I muffed the name, but I think it was Belle of the River—that doesn’t matter, however—the point is, that it’s proceeding right now slowly upstream trying to comb refugee points where there may be ham-operators, and is reporting its position right now as exactly one-half mile below this very island. It says the dam is not yet gone—but is just ready to go now. And is instructing any ham-operator, upward from the point where it now is, to send a continuous tone-signal or flash of any kind at 10-second intervals—and they have an electro-audi-finder by which they can catch both the direction and source of the signals—regardless of wavelength—and will head in—will take the operator—and any party—off. What do you want me to do?”
“God in heaven!” ejaculated the Sheriff, helplessly. ‘Whar—indeed? Why—start sendin’ them signals, o’ course!”
The kneeling man bent over the tangle of tubes and gadgets. His finger poised near the black key. He nearly touched it—then looked up.
“Wait, Sheriff Brister. We’ve enough life belts now—with Hart’s fine blow-up vest—to get off safe—every man jack of us!—and leave him here to drown. But—a series of signals now to that oncoming sternwheeler means we’re all taken off—including him—alive. But—but there’s a reward for him—and—well—how many of us are in—on his capture?”
The manner in which the Sheriff’s Adam’s apple went up and down in his throat indicated a man dealing, with a peculiar inward problem, if not a certain recent insult comparing him unfavorably with one Charley Chan. “A qua’ter share o’ $20,000,” he said quietly and dignifiedly, “is $5000. Which is plumb mo’ money than I, ever ’spected to take out’n the sheriffin’ business in all my life. And which sum settles a plenty heart-breakin’ problem in my life—fur ’ith that, I kin squar’ my honor consarnin’ suttin things!—and marry Mehitable Jenkins. And so yo’re all,” he added, magnanimously, “in on the capture o’ this man, sence—” And with a wry face he added: “—sence I happen to know the law on sich matters—as captures! Yes, Montesquez, you’ll have ’nough—as yo’re share—to hire that Randygraff feller, atter yo’re drug back to N’York—and git yorese’f out’n that mess yo’re in—plus $4000 over, with which you’ll be able to go back to Mexico and marry that Pepita Torre—Torre—Torreverde,” he accomplished triumphantly; “while you, Hick, ’ll have ’nough—as yo’re share—to cla’r yo’re inhairtance complete from that defic’incy jedgment, so that when you marry that Eve Houghtenvale—once o’ the movies—you’ll have yore inhairtance cla’r—fur you gotta do plenty right by a ex-movie queen as sweet as she was!—yes, you do; and you, Blake, ’ll have—in yo’re share—the exact sum to take up them punched-out wu’thless count’feit bills you sorta lef’ behind accidental-like—and which’ll make yo’re father-in-law-to-be feel like a dirty pup—you restorin’ stealing you never stoled!—but what’s most impo’tent is that you kin marry his datter, who, you say, b’lieves in you, right onder his nose—and go live in any fool state you want to. And—and—and goddang it to hell, ef Charley Chan hisse’f could a-b’en fairer than I’ve be’n today, I’ll—I’ll be a spavined mule with—with piles!”
The kneeling man grinned.
“You’re tooting right, Sheriff,” he said. “Oh, no—not that you’re a spavined mule with hemorrhoids—no!—but that you’re a white man. And, on behalf of the Five-Thousand-Club—I salute you! Well—here goes $5000 worth of ham operating!”
He depressed the key.
A crackling blue spark flew suddenly across two close-lying brass balls connected by wires with two curious box-like silvered devices.
And the Sheriff turned to the man in the tight-fitting derby hat.
“And I think, Hick,” he said slowly, “that us, o’ Bleeker’s Isle owe you a vote of thanks.”
“A vote of—of thanks?” echoed the latter. “Why?”
“Becaze,” the Sheriff pointed out, “we cain’t thank Jirjohn Cobb—fur bein’ the subjec’ of a port’ait what got you out hyar. Nor Barnwell Cobb—fur sendin’ you out hyar. Sence both is dead! But you—who had int’rust ’nough in yo’re own gran’ther to survey the pore old man fur a good long while—that is, his port’ait—you air the real hero o’ this island. Fur ef’n you hadn’t did it, you wouldn’t a-b’en out hyar. In which case Hart hyar—who’s wuth some 2,000,000 pennies ef cotched—and ef d’livered!—Hart hyar, a-snoozin’ down in that pit, would-a drownded right whar he was—’thout neither me nor Mex nor Blake ever even knowin’ he was thar. And—of me an’ Mex an’ Blake—takin’ to the river in these belts—in a dam-bustin’ avylanche—one, o’ mebbe ma’, would probly a-b’en drownded like rats. And so—befo’ I step over yander an’ retrieve that pin fur the McCo’niss estate—I want to tender, to a kentryman ’ith whiskers in his ears like myse’f—a kentryman named Hick—Abner Ezry Hick—o’ Bad Axe, Mich—I want to tender, this day, on behalf o’ the pop’lation o’ Bleeker’s Island, its thanks fur a $20,000 pie—cut four juicy ways. And—keep sending thar, keyman!—keep sending!”
Contents
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
DEDICATION
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
Landmarks
Cover
Harry Stephen Keeler, The Portrait of Jirjohn Cobb
