Chapter VI: Dashington Dashed

Joe Dashington was in fine feather as he left the house with the bag of diamonds. A combination of circumstances had enabled him to make a rich haul, and to make it with an ease and celerity that surprised him.

He half expected that some one would overhaul him and stop him before he got out of the house, but in this he was happily disappointed. Reaching the sidewalk, he passed through the gate and was confronted by Whistler.

Dashington had been told, whether successful or not in getting the diamonds, to walk to the first cross street south, where he would find Jurgens, Whistler, and Bangs waiting for him. But the three men feared Dashington might, if he managed to secure the diamonds, go north instead of south, with the intention of keeping the "sparks" for himself. For this reason, Whistler was sent to meet him as he came out of the yard.

"Did you get 'em?" whispered Whistler.

"Did I?" exulted Dashington; "well, did I not! Oh, it was a hot touch, but I got away with it with ground to spare. I'm the fly boy, Whistler, and none of your common dubs. But let's wabble right along. The sick Indian has got a hefty gazabu for a right bower, and if the right bower was played on us there'd be doings and we might get queered."

"Hand me the bag, Dash," said Whistler, as they hurried southward along the walk.

"Don't shove," answered Dashington. "It's tucked away in my kimono and I'm so busy with the getaway I don't want to cough up until we're with the rest of the push. Honest, though, I'm no understudy for a low card, am I?"

"You're the goods, Dash, and no mistake. Don't drop that bag out of your sweater while we're hurrying."

"Nay, Frances, I couldn't be so absent-minded. When I get my hooks onto a good thing I'm worse than the Terrible Turk with a strangle hold."

"What did Townsend say?"

"He wanted me to come in at the rear; said some one had been piping off the house from across the street. Who was that?"

Whistler chuckled.

"Sometimes Bangs," he answered, "and sometimes a fellow Bangs got to spell him."

"Then, Bangs and the other must have spelled it like a couple of farmers. Townsend was wise."

"Motor Matt hadn't been there?"

"Not so you could notice."

"That was the point that worried me. If he had had an idea what that letter contained, or that Jurgens and I were mixed up with it, he'd have been with Townsend hours ago, and the whole game would have been queered."

"And your Uncle Joe pinched. That gives me a good, swift notion that I've taken some chances and ought to have a pretty square look-in on the divvy. How much do I pull down?"

"You'll pull down a-plenty, Dash."

"Put it in cold figures. You see, I don't like these glittering generalities."

"We can't any of us tell how much we get till we see how much there is."

"It ought to be ten thou, at least. Townsend said there were enough sparks in the bag to make Tiffany's exhibit look like a piker. Ten thou will buy me an interest in a racing stable, and I'm dippy about the ponies. It's an even-money break that----"

"Stow it! Here we are at the car."

At that moment, Whistler and Dashington came out on the cross street. An automobile was drawn up at the curb, and two men could be seen, one on the front seat and one in the tonneau. The man behind proved to be Bangs, and the man at the wheel was Jurgens. Both were in their shirt sleeves, and Bangs' coat was lying over the side of the car.

"Oh, ho!" gurgled Dashington, "so it's a benzine buggy for ours, eh? It's a fancy pass and ought to snatch us away before the police get busy."

"How did you make out, Dashington?" asked Jurgens, in his anxiety getting up and leaning over the side of the car.

"Easy money," answered the youth. "I had my brace right with me, and the way I took that high jump calls for a hand."

"You got the diamonds?"

"Ain't I telling you?"

"Take them, Whistler. Then both of you pile in and we'll be going--and we'll have to go hard and fast, at that."

Dashington dug the bag out from under his sweater.

"You're all jerry to this," said he, as he reached out the bag to Whistler, "that I come in for a big bunch of the dazzlers, and that----"

"There's one of your dazzlers, my gay buck!"

Whistler, taking the bag in his left hand, struck out with his right. Dashington, the breath jolted out of him, staggered back.

"And there's another!"

Whistler struck again with all his savage strength. This time Dashington dropped silently to his knees and fell on his back, with his head over the curb.

"I reckon that will do him," laughed Jurgens. "Jump in, Whistler. We'll be out of town before he gets back his wits, and it's dollars to dimes he won't say a word to the police."

Whistler laughed grimly as he pulled the crank and then sprang into the automobile. In another moment the machine had chugged away.

Perhaps it was five minutes before Dashington groaned, opened his eyes and sat up. The stillness of the night was all around him.

"Blanked!" he muttered, lifting both hands to his aching head. "They knocked me a twister and got away on the high speed. Oh, what a frost! It's a hot night, but I'm a dub if I haven't got chilblains. Yes, little one, you played the game like a farmer--the genuine, blown-in-the-bottle Easy Mark. Dashed again. I ought to be used to the double-cross by now, it's been dumped onto me so many times. Ouch, my head! I'd like to pull off the block and play football with it--that's about all it's good for."

Dashington got up and leaned against a China ball tree.

"Feel like I'd been smoking some new brand of dope," he went on, waiting for the darkened landscape to stop whirling and stay where it belonged. "This game of graft don't pay," he went on moodily. "I'm always the monk that pulls the hot nuts out of the fire for some other strong-arm guy, and I'm getting weary on the job. What funny noises a fellow hears after a jolt like that!"

Still leaning against the tree, Dashington began rubbing his head.

"Why not cut out the crooked work and be decent?" he mumbled thoughtfully. "I've trotted heats with dips, second-story men, and sand-bag experts, and every last one of 'em has blanked me when it came to the showdown. Why not break away from the swift game and take a job at five per, with three honest square meals and a place to bunk? When you turn the X-rays on this grafting game, there's nothing in it."

He left the tree and stepped from the curb to pick up a dark object on the ground. He thought it was his hat, but it turned out to be a coat.

"Am I daffy," he murmured, "or is this the coat I saw swinging over the side of the chug-chug wagon? It's the sack that belongs to neighbor Bangs, and if there's a hundred or so in the pockets, I'm the boy to put it where it will do the most good."

Picking up his hat, which lay a little distance from where the coat had dropped, he hurried off toward the nearest street lamp. Then, with deft fingers, he began searching the coat pockets.

He found some cigars and a memorandum book; also a short-barreled, loaded revolver. But there was no money.

"That's the way luck handles me," he muttered angrily, casting the coat aside. "Cigars never did agree with me, and I've got as much use for the gun as I have for the notebook. But, say! Maybe I can leave the pepper box with some gent at the sign of the three balls."

He dropped the revolver into his pocket; then, quite casually, he opened the memorandum book and began turning the leaves. The street light was wavering and none too good, but he drew closer to it and ran his eyes over the pages.

Then, suddenly, he chanced upon something that caused him to draw in a long breath.

"Oh, sister!" he exclaimed, drumming his knuckles delightedly against his forehead. "If here ain't a chance to even up with that sure-thing crowd, I'm a geezer. If I can't go with them and take my share of the loot, I can go against them and help separate them from the lot of it. 'Bayou Yamousa!' That ought to be easily found. Bayou Yamousa for mine, and I'm on the level from this on. That's straight, and no stringin'. Bangs will throw a fit when he finds out he's lost his coat, but it's a lead pipe he won't come back for it."

Then, as Dashington dropped the memorandum book into his pocket, he had another thought.

The police! For what he had done that night, even though he had failed to benefit by it, there was a chance of his getting caught and "doing time."

How long would it be before Motor Matt reached the house in Prytania Street? And how long after that before the law would be called in to do what it could toward overhauling the thieves and recovering the diamonds?

"If I stand to win in this little game of one call three," he muttered, "I've got to duck good and hard. If I'm pinched now, it means an easy getaway for Jurgens, Whistler, and Bangs. But I'm not going to be run in. I guess I'm keen enough to dodge the law while hunting for Bayou Yamousa and giving those pinheads a taste of their own dope. Me for the tall and uncut--and here goes."

Dashington took a swift look around. There were as yet no signs of threatening peril, but he knew danger was close on him for all that. The river lay at one end of the street, and as soon as he had got his bearings he made for it.