Joe's Luck

THE FOILED ASSASSIN

About four o’clock Joe went into a restaurant and got some dinner.  In spite of his wish to be economical, his dinner bill amounted to a dollar and a half, and now his cash in hand was reduced to two dollars and a half.

Joe began to feel uneasy.

“This won’t do,” he said to himself.  “At this rate I shall soon be penniless.  I must get something to do.”

In the evening he strolled down Montgomery Street to Telegraph Hill.  It was not a very choice locality, the only buildings being shabby little dens, frequented by a class of social outlaws who kept concealed during the day but came out at night—­a class to which the outrages frequent at this time were rightly attributed.

Joe was stumbling along the uneven path, when all at once he found himself confronted by a tall fellow wearing a slouched hat.  The man paused in front of him, but did not say a word.  Finding that he was not disposed to move aside, Joe stepped aside himself.  He did not as yet suspect the fellow’s purpose.  He understood it, however, when a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Quick, boy, your money!” said the ruffian.

Having but two dollars and a half, Joe naturally felt reluctant to part with it, and this gave him the courage to object.

“I’ve got none to spare,” he said and tried to tear himself away.

His resistance led the fellow to suspect that he had a considerable sum with him.  Joe felt himself seized and carried into a den close by, which was frequented by thieves and desperate characters.

There was a counter, on which was set a dim oil-lamp.  There were a few bottles in sight, and a villainous-looking fellow appeared to preside over the establishment.  The latter looked up as Joe was brought in.

“Who have you there?” asked the barkeeper.

“A young cove as don’t want to part with his money.”

“You’d better hand over what you’ve got, young ’un.”

Joe looked from one to the other and thought he had never seen such villainous faces before.

“What are you lookin’ at?” demanded his captor suspiciously, “You want to know us again, do you?  Maybe you’d like to get us hauled up, would you?”

“I don’t want ever to set eyes on you again.”

“That’s the way to talk.  As soon as our business is over, there ain’t no occasion for our meetin’ again.  Don’t you go to point us out, or——­”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but whipped out a long knife, which made any further remarks unnecessary.

Under the circumstances, resistance would be madness and Joe drew out his money.

“Is that all you’ve got?” demanded the thief.

“Every cent,” said Joe.  “It won’t leave me anything to pay for my night’s lodging.”

“Then you can sleep out.  I’ve done it many a time.  But I’ll take the liberty of searching you, and seeing if you tell the truth or not.”

“Just as you like,” said Joe.

Joe was searched, but no more money was found.

“The boy’s told the truth,” said his captor.  “Two dollars and a half is a pretty small haul.”

“I am sorry, gentlemen, that I haven’t anything more.  It isn’t my fault, for I’ve tried hard to get something to do to-day, and couldn’t.”

“You’re a cool customer,” said the barkeeper.

“I expect to be to-night, for I shall have to sleep out.”

“You can go,” said his captor, as he opened the door of the den; “and don’t come round here again, unless you’ve got more money with you.”

“I don’t think I shall,” said Joe.

When Joe found himself penniless, he really felt less anxious than when he had at least money enough to pay for lodging and breakfast.  Having lost everything, any turn of fortune must be for the better.

“Something has got to turn up pretty quick,” thought Joe.  “It’s just as well I didn’t get a job to-day.  I should only have had more money to lose.”

He had not walked a hundred feet when his attention was called to the figure of a gentleman walking some rods in front of him.  He saw it but indistinctly, and would not have given it a second thought had he not seen that the person, whoever he might be, was stealthily followed by a man who in general appearance resembled the rascal who had robbed him of his money.  The pursuer carried in his hand a canvas bag filled with sand.  This, though Joe did not know it, was a dangerous weapon in the hands of a lawless human.  Brought down heavily upon the head of an unlucky traveler, it often produced instant death, without leaving any outward marks that would indicate death from violence.

Though Joe didn’t comprehend the use of the sand-bag, his own recent experience and the stealthy movement of the man behind convinced him that mischief was intended.  He would have been excusable if, being but a boy and no match for an able-bodied ruffian, he had got out of the way.  But Joe had more courage than falls to the share of most boys of sixteen.  He felt a chivalrous desire to rescue the unsuspecting stranger from the peril that menaced him.

Joe, too, imitating the stealthy motion of the pursuer, swiftly gained upon him, overtaking him just as he had the sand-bag poised aloft, ready to be brought down upon the head of the traveler.

With a cry, Joe rushed upon the would-be assassin, causing him to stumble and fall, while the gentleman in front turned round in amazement.

Joe sprang to his side.

“Have you a pistol?” he said quickly.

Scarcely knowing what he did, the gentleman drew out a pistol and put it in Joe’s hand.  Joe cocked it, and stood facing the ruffian.

The desperado was on his feet, fury in his looks and a curse upon his lips.  He swung the sand-bag aloft.

“Curse you!” he said.  “I’ll make you pay for this!”

“One step forward,” said Joe, in a clear, distinct voice, which betrayed not a particle of fear, “and I will put a bullet through your brain!”

The assassin stepped back.  He was a coward, who attacked from behind.  He looked in the boy’s resolute face, and he saw he was in earnest.

“Put down that weapon, you whipper-snapper!”

“Not much!” answered Joe.

“I’ve a great mind to kill you!”

“I’ve no doubt of it,” said our hero; “but you’d better not attack me.  I am armed, and I will fire if you make it necessary.  Now, turn round and leave us.”

“Will you promise not to shoot?”

“Yes, if you go off quietly.”

The order was obeyed, but not very willingly.

When the highwayman had moved off, Joe said: 

“Now, sir, we’d better be moving, and pretty quickly, or the fellow may return, with some of his friends, and overpower us.  Where are you stopping?”

“At the Waverly House.”

“That is near-by.  We will go there at once.”

They soon reached the hotel, a large wooden building on the north side of Pacific Street.

Joe was about to bid his acquaintance good night but the latter detained him.

“Come in, my boy,” he said.  “You have done me a great service.  I must know more of you.”