Читать книгу Prisoners in Devil's Bog - Percy Keese Fitzhugh - Страница 6

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In the Juvenile Court next day, Skippy was duly arraigned and sentenced. An International Detective Agency man posing as an irate merchant pressed a charge of petty larceny against John Doe, orphan, no home and a native of the city of New York. The evening papers carried a small first page story on this original John Doe who was about to spend his first night of a four year sentence in the Delafield Reformatory.

Meanwhile, Skippy was aware that his role of John Doe, thief, had become almost too realistic to be comfortable. His morning wait in the courtroom had seemed interminable. The heat was oppressive, the court procedure tiresome and he felt not a little regret that he had not urged Mr. Conne to have his aunt come and give him the bit of encouragement he needed to go on with his part in the reformatory. He thought of his dead father, of Big Joe Tully who had lost his life saving the Airedale, Mugs, which he had given to Skippy. And Mugs too was gone, killed by an auto.

Not that he felt in the least fearful nor doubted his ability to go through with his strange role. He merely felt a little lonesome and wished that he might look out over the sea of faces that crowded the courtroom and see his Aunt Min’s among them, smiling her encouragement. But his aunt was at home busy with her sewing that morning, quite content with the money that Carlton Conne had turned over to her and satisfied that the great detective would see that her nephew was safe and sound.

Skippy had to be content with the presence of Dick Hallam, Carlton Conne’s man, notwithstanding the fact that he was supposed to be prosecuting him. Hallam, however, was better than no one at all for when the occasion permitted, he flashed a significant look at the boy.

He spent the afternoon in an ante room and Dick Hallam, blond, tall and about twenty-eight, played “rummy” with him. Also, he had too much to eat, including ice cream and candy and cold drinks and at about four o’clock Carlton Conne came in.

“All set, kid?” he asked with that half-smile that Skippy was beginning to like.

“And how!” the boy grinned, feeling cheerful immediately.

“He’s been acting like it’s a picnic, boss,” Dick Hallam interposed gaily.

“Fine,” said the detective. “You want to keep it up, kid—you’ve nothing to fear—not a thing! Everything’s been arranged, and I don’t think you’ll have to spend more than a night or two at Delafield. Meanwhile, what time you do spend, you’ll have someone watching close at hand so never feel you’re alone. The warden and a few trusted guards know of our little game, but of course you’re to speak to no one about it unless you’re spoken to first. Now—you remember all the signals?”

“Yes sir—everythin’!”

Dick Hallam grinned. “He’s just nervous about riding up with that rough neck gang that’s been sentenced today, boss. Especially one tough kid named Nickie Fallon who got seven years for trying his hand at a hold-up and carrying a gun. Some character, that kid.”

“I know,” Conne said understandingly, “that’s the only disagreeable part of this job, kid. But I warned you what the company would be like.”

“Aw gee, Mr. Conne, I ain’t afraida that. I was just wonderin’ if they’d be the kind of guys what start a fight on the way an’ if they did what would I do, huh?”

“How would you act if you were riding up with that bunch to start a real sentence, eh? Well kid, get yourself in the state of mind that it is real and act accordingly.”

Skippy did just that. About six o’clock a court attendant led him out to a closed car. Four boys ranging from about his own age to seventeen years sat inside and eyed him sullenly as he crowded his slim body among them to make the fifth passenger on the back seat. Two detectives followed and took the chairs before them; another detective sat ahead on the seat beside the driver.

“Well, if it ain’t John Doe—the kid hisself!” a hoarse voice whispered beside him.

Skippy looked up and saw a drooping mouth and black eyes almost too bright—Nickie Fallon. Despite an inward shudder, he nodded and smiled.

“That’s me,” he said simply. “Got enough room?”

“Nah, but that’s all jake. Might’s well get used to crowdin’.” Then, after a pause: “Say, you John Doe, on the level?”

Skippy gave a sidelong glance at the detectives to see if they noted this whispered conversation between Nickie Fallon and himself. Apparently they didn’t, and he gave the boy another smile.

“Anyways, they slipped you four years, eh? Three years less’n me.” There was another pause after which Fallon whispered, “They ain’t keepin’ me two days if I can take it on the lam. How about you, kid?”

Skippy nodded again, feeling rather foolish as he did so. However, he could think of no other course to pursue, and instinct prompted him to hold his tongue until he was sure of himself.

“Ain’t the gabby kind, eh?” said the other. “Well, that’s the kinda pal I like. Say, if they don’t put us near each other up there, I’ll raise the dust—see? I wanta pal like you.”

Skippy stirred uneasily. Was Nickie Fallon going to be an unlooked-for factor in this strange play?