Castle Craneycrow

by George Barr McCutcheon

  Produced by Charles Aldarondo

  CASTLE CRANEYCROW

  By George Barr McCutcheon

  NEW YORK

  1902

  CASTLE CRANEYCROW

  I. THE TAKING OF TURK

  It was characteristic of Mr. Philip Quentin that he first lecturedhis servant on the superiority of mind over matter and then took himcheerfully by the throat and threw him into a far corner of theroom. As the servant was not more than half the size of the master,his opposition was merely vocal, but it was neverthelessunmistakable. His early career had increased his vocabulary and hislanguage was more picturesque than pretty. Yet of his loyalty andfaithfulness, there could be no doubt. During the seven years of hisservice, he had been obliged to forget that he possessed such a nameas Turkington or even James. He had been Turk from the beginning,and Turk he remained--and, in spite of occasional out breaks, he hadproved his devotion to the young gentleman whose goods and chattelshe guarded with more assiduity than he did his own soul or--whatmeant more to him--his personal comfort. His employment came about inan unusual way. Mr. Quentin had an apartment in a smart buildinguptown. One night he was awakened by a noise in his room. In thedarkness he saw a man fumbling among his things, and in an instanthe had seized his revolver from the stand at his bedside and coveredthe intruder. Then he calmly demanded: "Now, what are you doinghere?"

  "I'm lookin' for a boardin' house," replied the other, sullenly.

  "You're just a plain thief--that's all."

  "Well, it won't do me no good to say I'm a sleepwalker, will it?--era missionary, er a dream? But, on d' dead, sport, I'm hungry, an' Iwuz tryin' to git enough to buy a meal an' a bed. On d' dead, Iwuz."

  "And a suit of clothes, and an overcoat, and a house and lot, Isuppose, and please don't call me 'sport' again. Sit down--not ohthe floor; on that chair over there. I'm going to search you. Maybeyou've got something I need." Mr. Quentin turned on the light andproceeded to disarm the man, piling his miserable effects on achair. "Take off that mask. Lord! put it on again; you look muchbetter. So, you're hungry, are you?"

  "As a bear."

  Quentin never tried to explain his subsequent actions; perhaps hehad had a stupid evening. He merely yawned and addressed the burglarwith all possible respect. "Do you imagine I'll permit any guest ofmine to go away hungry? If you'll wait till I dress, we'll strollover to a restaurant in the next street and get some supper.

  "Police station, you mean."

  "Now, don't be unkind, Mr. Burglar. I mean supper for two. I'mhungry myself, but not a bit sleepy. Will you wait?"

  "Oh, I'm in no particular hurry."

  Quentin dressed calmly. The burglar began whistling softly.

  "Are you ready?" asked Philip, putting on his overcoat and hat.

  "I haven't got me overcoat on yet," replied the burglar,suggestively. Quentin saw he was dressed in the chilliest of rags.He opened a closet door and threw him a long coat.

  "Ah, here is your coat. I must have taken it from the club bymistake. Pardon me."

  "T'anks; I never expected to git it back," coolly replied theburglar, donning the best coat that had ever touched his person."You didn't see anything of my gloves and hat in there, did you?" Ahat and a pair of gloves were produced, not perfect in fit, butquite respectable.

  Soberly they walked out into the street and off through thetwo-o'clock stillness. The mystified burglar was losing hisequanimity. He could not understand the captor's motive, nor couldhe much longer curb his curiosity. In his mind he was fullysatisfied that he was walking straight to the portals of the neareststation. In all his career as a housebreaker, he had never beforebeen caught, and now to be captured in such a way and treated insuch a way was far past comprehension. Ten minutes before he waslooking at a stalwart figure with a leveled revolver, confidentlyexpecting to drop with the bullet in his body from an agitatedweapon. Indeed, he encountered conditions so strange that he felt adoubt of their reality. He had, for some peculiar and amazingreason, no desire to escape. There was something in the oddness ofthe proceeding that made him wish to see it to an end. Besides, hewas quite sure the strapping young fellow would shoot if heattempted to bolt.

  "This is a fairly good eating house," observed the would-be victimas they came to an "all-nighter." They entered and deliberatelyremoved their coats, the thief watching his host with shifty, eventwinkling eyes. "What shall it be, Mr. Robber? You are hungry, andyou may order the entire bill, from soup to the date line, if youlike. Pitch in."

  "Say, boss, what's your game?" demanded the crook, suddenly. Hissharp, pinched face, with its week's growth of beard, wore a newexpression--that of admiration. "I ain't such a rube that I don'tlike a good t'ing even w'en it ain't comin' my way. You'se a dandy,dat's right, an' I t'ink we'd do well in de business togedder. Putme nex' to yer game."

  "Game? The bill of fare tells you all about that. Here's quail,squab, duck--see? That's the only game I'm interested in. Go on, andorder."

  "S' 'elp me Gawd if you ain't a peach."

  For half an hour Mr. Burglar ate ravenously, Quentin watching himthrough half-closed, amused eyes. He had had a dull, monotonousweek, and this was the novelty that lifted life out of the torpidityinto which it had fallen.

  The host at this queer feast was at that time little more thantwenty-five years of age, a year out of Yale, and just back from asecond tour of South America. He was an orphan, coming into a bigfortune with his majority, and he had satiated an old desire totravel in lands not visited by all the world. Now he was back in NewYork to look after the investments his guardian had made, and hefound them so ridiculously satisfactory that they cast a shadow ofdullness across his mind, always hungry for activity.

  "Have you a place to sleep?" he asked, at length.

  "I live in Jersey City, but I suppose I can find a cheap lodgin'house down by d' river. Trouble is, I ain't got d' price."

  "Then come back home with me. You may sleep in Jackson's room.Jackson was my man till yesterday, when I dismissed him for stealingmy cigars and drinking my drinks. I won't have anybody about me whosteals. Come along."

  Then they walked swiftly back to Quentin's flat. The owner of theapartment directed his puzzled guest to a small room off his own,and told him to go to bed.

  "By the way, what's your name?" he asked, before he closed the door.

  "Turkington--James Turkington, sir," answered the now respectfulrobber. And he wanted to say more, but the other interrupted.

  "Well, Turk, when you get up in the morning, polish those shoes ofmine over there. We'll talk it over after I've had my breakfast.Good-night."

  And that is how Turk, most faithful and loyal of servants, began hisapparently endless employment with Mr. Philip Quentin, dabbler instocks, bonds and hearts. Whatever his ugly past may have been,whatever his future may have promised, he was honest to a painfuldegree in these days with Quentin. Quick-witted, fiery, willful andas ugly as a little demon, Turk knew no law, no integrity exceptthat which benefitted his employer. Beyond a doubt, if Quentin hadinstructed him to butcher a score of men, Turk would have proceededto do so and without argument. But Quentin instructed him to behonest, law-abiding and cautious. It would be perfectly safe toguess his age between forty and sixty, but it would not be wise tomeasure his strength by the size of his body. The little ex-burglarwas like a piece of steel.