The plug struck the bare right forearm of Murdock, holding the automatic, and as the sheriff yanked with all the strength that he felt the split bamboo could stand, the hooks sank into the crook’s flesh. Murdock let out a cry of surprise and pain. The gun went sailing out of his fingers to land in the lake. Simultaneously, the man himself lost his balance, tried to right himself, and pitched forward into the water with a heavy splash.
Ollie began reeling in his line like a madman. It was new line and strong line, he was aware, and it could take powerful punishment. It had to, furthermore, for the sheriff was pulling his boat toward his captive, still struggling in the water. The lake was not more than three feet deep there, and it was not long before Murdock had regained his footing. He stood up, blowing out water and shrieking with pain:
“Damn you, you’ve dug them hooks clean through my arm!… Damn you, lemme loose!… I’ll—”
“You’ll stand quiet an’ stick your hands in the air, this time, Mr. Murdock,” said Ollie quietly, when only a few feet away from his opponent. “If you don’t, I’ll jest be c’mpelled to bash your bean in with one o’ my oars!”
The crook obeyed.
“Good,” drawled Ollie. “Now jest stand there till I git on the dock.”
Ollie, then, deftly maneuvered his boat, pushing it along with one oar, until he was able to step onto the wharf. He gave further commands:
“Walk up here to the edge of the dock. That’s it. Now, put your arms down, close to your sides. Fine. Keep ’em there an’ — no, keep ’em there, I said!”
As he spoke, he began whirling the short one-piece bamboo rod in the air and winding the braided silk casting line around Murdock’s body, lashing the crook’s arms to his sides.
“Jeez, you’re cuttin’ into me,” complained Murdock.
“Had to cut into my friend Mr. Gansvoort a mite, didn’t I?” queried Ollie, going on with his job. “There. I cal’late you’re what they’d term plumb roped an’ hogtied, out in the great open spaces o’ the West, Mr. Murdock,” he added in a moment.
Murdock was bound quite beautifully, at that, with all but perhaps eight or ten yards of the tough line.
“Step up onto the dock now,” said Ollie. “Here. Let me give you a hand. There. That’s fine. Now pick up them two valises. We’ll go in an’ free Mr. Gansvoort an’ then we’ll hike into Derby.”
“Hike into Derby?” gasped Murdock, as he awkwardly and painfully stooped and picked up the bags that Ollie had placed on the dock.
“Sure we’ll hike,” said Ollie.
“Can’t… can’t we row over and get my car?” asked Murdock.
“Shucks, your car ain’t fit for travellin’. Not knowin’ what ’ud happen, you see, I went an’ cut the two rear tires an’ the spare when I made believe to go back for that reel. That’s why I had my knife opened. Besides, I got to show the boys to the Derby House what I caught whilst out learnin’ plug castin’!… Sure, pick up them bags an’ let’s go let loose Mr. Gansvoort!”
It was after sunrise when Ollie drove his captive onto the macadam road that led into the county seat. Practically all of Derby, and most of the inhabitants of adjoining Saltash Corners, were on hand to greet him. Ollie had seen to that, for he had to think of his votes in the fall. He had marched the crook two miles to the nearest telephone, after they had freed the coin collector, and had sent in word that Bert Wells was to be located and get ready a cell for him.
Bert had done so, presumably, for the deputy was the first to greet him.
“Got your cell ready, Sheriff,” he said, trying to be offhand.
“Right sorry I had to git you out o’ bed to do it, Bert, an’ that I couldn’t ’a’ left orders with you ’afore I went fishin’ with Murdock,” said Ollie. He went on, slowly and gravely: “I suspicioned suthin’ were wrong when Murdock were so sot he’d bought that reel in nineteen-twen’y, but I jest couldn’t go an’ be sure.
“Dangerous to act without bein’ sure. All I could do were string along with him. I couldn’t pos’tive place him for the Sebago and Long Lake crook, although a feller might wear a red wig an’ mustache; an’ might paint a scar on his face; an’ might have shoes made to have him a few inches taller; an’ might sell or exchange a green Sunray roadster for a black Oakley coupe; or—”
“Yes, you did an excellent piece of detective work, Sheriff,” came from the deputy, who was plainly trying to slide out gracefully.
“The joke o’ the whole thing be,” chuckled Ollie, “that it were my fishin’ hobby that you fellers twit me about that went an’ helped me think Murdock might be the crook. Whereas I never were a bass caster ’afore tonight, I do a heap o’ readin’ in gun an’ fishin’ tackle cat’logues. I don’t mean it boastful, but I can come close to tellin’, through this same readin’, jest when a gun or a rod or a reel were manufactured. Anyways, when Murdock said he’d bought that reel in nineteen twen’y, I knowed he were a liar. That reel wa’n’t manufactured by that pa’-tic’lar maker until nineteen twen’y four!”
“Hell,” said Mr. Murdock.
“Well, you’ve earned a nice reward, Sheriff,” said Bert.
He looked disgruntled.
“Think I have earned it,” conceded Ollie. “Yep, seein’ as I wa’n’t able to git to the courthouse to git my gun ’thout makin’ Murdock think it funny, I were in what you young squirts call a spot where I might ’a’ been drilled. Yep, reckon I did earn it. I—”
“You can buy a lot of tackle with it, all right,” said the deputy. “I wasn’t thinking of the reward myself, when I went up to Upper Saltash,” he added.
Ollie smiled, slowly and whimsically, and scratched his bald head and blinked his round turquoise blue eyes. He spoke with a soft drawclass="underline"
“I were thinkin’ o’ the reward, alius. You see, seems as though Ken Benson, that were my dep’ty when I fu’st come into office twen’y-odd year ago, left a widder an’ three young uns when he died last year. He didn’t leave ’em much money, neither… Seems as though poor Blaise Guptil, when he lost his left arm on his portable wood saw, lost a way o’ makin’ a livin’ for him an’ his ol’ mother…”
Ollie broke off.
“Shucks, Bert,” he went on, “I reckon they’s a heap o’ ways o’ usin’ that reward. I don’t need no more tackle… Ain’t I got a pretty sweet reel right here? Look what it caught me — a twen’y-seven hundred an’ fifty dollar fish!”
Slip Ahoy!
by Milo Ray Phelps
Sam Smitz was seasick — anyone would be seasick watching dizzy fluffy McGoff try to pull a hold-up on an ocean liner.
I
I never been one to take much stock in horseshoes, rabbit’s feet, and that kinda hooey, but all crooks is a little superstitious at heart, and how I ever come to go sailin’ out the Golden Gate on Friday the thirteenth is beyond me. I’d never ’a’ done it under ordinary circumstances, bein’ the cautious, methodical type that takes account of such details, but the run of good luck I’d been havin’ was enough to unbalance any guy.
Landin’ in Frisco three weeks before, without a dime in my pocket, Fortune, which has been dealin’ me foul of late, suddenly gives me the glad hand. First I finds four bits in the gutter, with which I buys a forty cent meal down in one of them dumps where you can still drop your tip in a slot machine. This I does, wins the jack pot, and starts out with three and a half in nickels. But some guy stops me by the door and suggests a game of stud. I’m agreeable, and departs later with twelve bucks and a Chinese lottery ticket which some guy has put in for a quarter. I keeps this just from sentiment, havin’ never won so much as a chop-stick in my life, and knocks over twenty-five hundred cold cash at the drawin’. Boy, it’s no wonder I gets a little giddy and goes in for more’n a few loud neckties.