then-well, it’s too much to hope that the authorities of this benighted republic will execute the man who pays half their salaries, and so in the name of Justice I shall take you myself and hang you from a high tree.”
For a moment of silence the air seemed to tingle with the same electric tension as heralds the breaking of a thunder storm, while the Saint’s ice-blue eyes quelled Shannet’s reawakening fury; and then, with a short laugh, the Saint relaxed.
“You’re a pawn in the game,” he said, with a contrasting carelessness which only emphasized the bleak implacability of his last speech. “We won’t waste good melodrama on you. We reserve that for clients with really important discredit accounts. Instead, you shall hear the epitaph I’ve just composed for you. It commemorates a pestilent tumour named Shannet, who disfigured the face of this planet. He started some fun, but before it was done he was wishing he’d never began it. That otherwise immortal verse is marred by a grammatical error, but I’m not expecting you to know any better… . Archibald-the door!”
Archie Sheridan had no reason to love Shannet, and the kick with which he launched the man into the garden was not gentle, but he seemed to derive no pleasure from it.
He came back with a grave face and resumed his chair facing the Saint.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve done what you wanted. Now shall we sit down and make our wills, or shall we spend our last hours of life in drinking and song?”
“Of course, we may be shot,” admitted the Saint calmly. “That’s up to us. How soon can we expect the army?”
“Not before five. They’ll all be asleep now, and an earth quake wouldn’t make the Pasala policeman break off his siesta. Much less the army, who are inclined to give themselves airs. We might catch the Andalusia,” he added hope fully.
The Saint surveyed him seraphically.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “that joke may now be considered over. We’ve started, and we’ve got to keep moving. As I don’t see the fun of sitting here waiting for the other side to surround us, I guess we’ll bounce right along and interview Kelly. And when you two have coached me thoroughly in the habits and topography of Santa Miranda, we’ll just toddle along and capture the town.”
“Just toddle along and which?” repeated Sheridan dazedly.
The Saint spun a cigarette high into the air, and trapped it neatly between his lips as it fell.
“That is to say, I will capture the town,” he corrected him self, “while you and Kelly create a disturbance somewhere to distract their attention. Wake up, sonny! Get your hat, and let’s go!”
3
The Saint’s breezy way of saying that he would “just toddle along and capture the town” was a slight exaggeration. As a matter of fact, he spent nearly four days on the job.
There was some spade-work to be done, and certain preparations to be made, and the Saint devoted a considerable amount of care and sober thought to these details. Though his methods, to the uninformed observer, might always have seemed to savour of the reckless, tip-and-run, hit-first-and-ask-questions-afterwards school, the truth was that he rarely stepped out of any frying pan without first taking the temperature of the fire beyond.
Even in such a foolhardy adventure as that in which he was then engaged, he knew exactly what he was doing, and legislated against failure as well as he might; for, even in the most outlandish parts of the world, the penalty of unsuccessful revolution is death, and the Saint had no overwhelming desire to turn his interesting biography into an obituary notice.
He explained his plan to Kelly, and found the Irishman an immediate convert to the Cause.
“Shure, I’ve been thinkin’ for years that it was time somebody threw out their crooked government,” said that worthy, ruffling a hand like a ham through his tousled mop of flaming hair. “I’m just wonderin’ now why I niver did it
For a moment of silence the air seemed to tingle with the same electric tension as heralds the breaking of a thunder storm, while the Saint’s ice-blue eyes quelled Shannet’s reawakening fury; and then, with a short laugh, the Saint relaxed.
“You’re a pawn in the game,” he said, with a contrasting carelessness which only emphasized the bleak implacability of his last speech. “We won’t waste good melodrama on you. We reserve that for clients with really important discredit accounts. Instead, you shall hear the epitaph I’ve just composed for you. It commemorates a pestilent tumour named Shannet, who disfigured the face of this planet. He started some fun, but before it was done he was wishing he’d never began it. That otherwise immortal verse is marred by a grammatical error, but I’m not expecting you to know any better… . Archibald-the door!”
Archie Sheridan had no reason to love Shannet, and the kick with which he launched the man into the garden was not gentle, but he seemed to derive no pleasure from it.
He came back with a grave face and resumed his chair facing the Saint.
“Well,” he said, “you’ve done what you wanted. Now shall we sit down and make our wills, or shall we spend our last hours of life in drinking and song?”
“Of course, we may be shot,” admitted the Saint calmly. “That’s up to us. How soon can we expect the army?”
“Not before five. They’ll all be asleep now, and an earth quake wouldn’t make the Pasala policeman break off his siesta. Much less the army, who are inclined to give themselves airs. We might catch the Andalusia,” he added hope fully.
The Saint surveyed him seraphically.
“Sweetheart,” he said, “that joke may now be considered over. We’ve started, and we’ve got to keep moving. As I don’t see the fun of sitting here waiting for the other side to surround us, I guess we’ll bounce right along and interview Kelly. And when you two have coached me thoroughly in the habits and topography of Santa Miranda, we’ll just toddle along and capture the town.”
“Just toddle along and which?” repeated Sheridan dazedly.
The Saint spun a cigarette high into the air, and trapped it neatly between his lips as it fell.
“That is to say, I will capture the town,” he corrected him self, “while you and Kelly create a disturbance somewhere to distract their attention. Wake up, sonny! Get your hat, and let’s go!”
3
The Saint’s breezy way of saying that he would “just toddle along and capture the town” was a slight exaggeration. As a matter of fact, he spent nearly four days on the job.
There was some spade-work to be done, and certain preparations to be made, and the Saint devoted a considerable amount of care and sober thought to these details. Though his methods, to the uninformed observer, might always have seemed to savour of the reckless, tip-and-run, hit-first-and-ask-questions-afterwards school, the truth was that he rarely stepped out of any frying pan without first taking the temperature of the fire beyond.
Even in such a foolhardy adventure as that in which he was then engaged, he knew exactly what he was doing, and legislated against failure as well as he might; for, even in the most outlandish parts of the world, the penalty of unsuccessful revolution is death, and the Saint had no overwhelming desire to turn his interesting biography into an obituary notice.
He explained his plan to Kelly, and found the Irishman an immediate convert to the Cause.
“Shure, I’ve been thinkin’ for years that it was time somebody threw out their crooked government,” said that worthy, ruffling a hand like a ham through his tousled mop of flaming hair. “I’m just wonderin’ now why I niver did it
Similar Books
The Creation of Inequality: How Our Prehistoric Ancestors Set the Stage for Monarchy, Slavery, and Empire
Kent Flannery, Joyce Marcus
