The Shadow - 317 - Ten Glass Eyes by Maxwell Grant

Author:Maxwell Grant
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Street & Smith
Published: 1947-12-31T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER VII

IN the stillness behind the bill board, in the darkness which Cranston had hoped would protect him and his helpless friend from alien eyes, suddenly there came a scratch of sound then a flickering light.

Cranston moved to the rear so his back was to the bill board. He had Stanton in his arms. The flickering light came from a wooden match. The match was held in the grimiest hands Cranston had ever seen on a man. The dirt was so thick that it splintered off as the man moved his fingers.

Stanton moved a trifle. Cranston held him so that the movement was unnoticeable. The little penumbra that spread from the match showed a face which was incredibly lined, and, if anything, dirtier than the man’s hands.

Tatters pinned together with rusty safety pins made a costume that had to be seen to be believed. The tramp took a crust of stale-looking rye bread from his pocket.

Stanton, opening his eyes for the first time, saw for his return from consciousness a strange sight. The tramp was not eating the crust. He was using, it as a strainer. From another pocket he took a can of Sterno. This is solidified alcohol. Wood alcohol.

The tramp had difficulty in juggling the lighted match to the can of sterno and the crust. He set fire to the alcohol. And when it was sending streamers of flame up, he turned the edge of the can and poured the flaming mass onto the bread.

As it started to pour, he blew the flame out. Only the stray flickers of light from the street showed his avid gaping wound of a mouth straining to catch the precious drops that fell from the bottom of the crust.

Knuckling his eyes, Stanton tried to turn and see who it was that held him. Cranston whispered, “Shhh…”

Stanton craned and his neck turned so that he saw Cranston’s face. It was reassuring in the nightmare setting that hailed his return from limbo. He relaxed. Things couldn’t be too bad if he was with Cranston.

The tramp sucked the last of the drippings from the bottom of the crust. He straightened his bowed shoulders. A grin of despair split his hatchet face. He took a deep breath. He threw the crust away.

In two minds, as to whether to bribe the tramp or just to sit it out and hope the tramp would go away, Cranston watched carefully.

Just when Cranston was sure that the tramp was ready to meander away, he turned and peered into the patch of darkness in which the two men were hidden.

He scratched a match on the seat of his dilapidated trousers. He looked straight at the two men. He said, “Hi, ‘bo.”

“Hello,” Cranston said. Bribe it would have to be, then.

“Why didn’t ya speak up, woulda give ya some alky.”

“Uh… no… I’m not in the mood,” Cranston said.

“Not in the mood?” the tramp said incredulously. He came closer. “What kind of a ‘bo has to be in the mood?”

His beady tiny eyes looked at Cranston, saw his arms around Stanton.

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