The Adventures of Mr. Clackworthy by Christopher B. Booth

Author:Christopher B. Booth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, conman, swindler, grifter, pulp fiction
Publisher: Wildside Press LLC
Published: 2013-06-13T00:00:00+00:00

MR. CLACKWORTHY REVIVES A TOWN

The long-hooded car, its eight cylinders humming in rhythmic, mechanical perfec­tion, rolled easily along the lake shore highway. On one side Lake Michigan sparkled like an amazing col­lection of jewels as the gently moving waves toyed with myriad sunbeams; on the other the greening fields ex­tended, glorious in their new spring verdure.

Mr. Amos Clackworthy, host to his three coplotters, James Early, George Bascom, and George’s pretty wife, sat at the steering wheel; he slackened speed that all might better enjoy the view.

“It’s beautiful!” cried Mrs. Bascom. “Oh, why do we have to be cooped up in cities?”

“It is beautiful,” and Mr. Clack­worthy nodded, “I shouldn’t wonder if even James, here, feels his thoughts stirred to—”

The Early Bird, seated beside the master confidence man, snorted indig­nantly at this accusation of poetic lean­ings.

“I’ll tell ya what it stirs my thoughts to,” he retorted. “Them fields is just the color of greenbacks, an’ that re­minds me that the firm of Clackworthy an’ Company had better be discussin’ ways an’ means of grabbin’ some kale instead of ravin’ about the breeze blowin’ through the trees, an’ all that spring­time stuff.”

“And listen to that mocking bird!” cried Mrs. Bascom, squeezing her hus­band’s hand. “Could there be sweeter music than that?”

“There sure could,” mumbled James, although the question was not addressed to him. “Right now I’d rather hear a soup-spoon solo with Yours Hungrily renderin’ the pleasin’ ditty. The old molars is just achin’ for the feel of a good T-bone.”

“Now that isn’t a bad suggestion,” agreed George Bascom, who let his bet­ter half voice the poetic sentiments of the Bascom family. “We ought to get a first-rate meal at some of these coun­try inns.”

“Fried chicken!” exclaimed Mrs. Bascom, turning her en­thu­siasm to the suggestion. “Yum-yum! I can smell it right now! And biscuits!”

“Now you are spielin’ poetry,” said The Early Bird. “An’ if the old peep­ers ain’t foolin’ me, I lamps what looks like a town over there t’ the right. Le’s go.”

“I make the vote unanimous,” Mr. Clackworthy laughed as he turned the machine into the side road along which lay the collection of roof tops which The Early Bird had pointed out. WARDSVILLE, ONE MILE, said a weather-battered signpost. A few minutes later the car was approaching the first of the modest little cottages. The yards of each were tangled with weeds, the win­dows of the houses vacant.

“Ain’t no house shortage in this here burg,” remarked The Early Bird. “All these places is as empty as a church on Monday mornin’.”

The street through which they passed presented an un­broken line of deserted cottages, mostly cheap, hastily con­structed affairs of three and four rooms. A little distance off there loomed, in dismal vacancy, a concrete block building. Evidently it had at one time been some sort of factory.

“Certainly a ghost town,” commented Mr. Clackworthy. “Same old story; factory closed and the town died. We’ll get no chicken dinners here, I’ll wager.”

The first sign of life was when a dog of

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