Books by BASIL KING
HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK Established 1817
“’Sh!” was the first sound that came from her. “Don’t make a noise or you’ll frighten my friend. She’s nervous already.”
(See p. 32)
The CITY OF COMRADES
BY BASIL KING
Author of “THE INNER SHRINE” “THE WILD OLIVE” “THE WAY HOME” “THE HIGH HEART” ETC.
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK AND LONDON
Copyright, 1919, by Harper & Brothers Printed in the United States of America
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE CITY OF COMRADES
CHAPTER I
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
In the slow swirl of Columbus Circle, at the southwest corner of Central Park, two seedy, sinister individuals could hold an exceedingly private conversation without drawing attention to themselves. There were others like us on the scene, in that month of June, 1913, cast up from the obscurest depths of New York. We could revolve there for five or ten minutes, in company with other elements of the city’s life, to be eliminated by degrees, sucked into other currents, forming new combinations or reacting to the old ones.
In silence we shuffled along a few paces, though not exactly side by side. Lovey was just sufficiently behind me to be able to talk confidentially into my ear. My own manner was probably that of a man anxious to throw off a dogging inferior. Even among us there are social degrees.
“Yer’ll be sorry,” Lovey warned me, reproachfully.
“Very well, then,” I jerked back at him over my shoulder; “I shall be sorry.”
“If I didn’t know it was a good thing I wouldn’t ’a’ wanted to take ye in on it—not you, I wouldn’t; and dead easy.”
“I don’t care for it.”
“Ye’re only a beginner—”
“I’m not even that.”
“No, ye’re not even that; and this’d larn ye. Just two old ladies—lots of money always in the ’ouse—no resistance—no weepons nor nothink o’ that kind; and me knowin’ every hinch of the ground through workin’ for ’em two years ago—”
“And suppose they recognized you?”
“That’s it. That’s why I must have a pal. If they’d git a look at any one it’d have to be at you. But you don’t need to be afraid, never pinched before nor nothink. Once yer picter’s in the rogues’ they’ll run ye in if ye so much as blow yer nose. You’d just get by as an unknown man.”
“And if I didn’t get by?”
“Oh, but you would, sonny. Ye’re the kind. Just look at ye! Slim and easy-movin’ as a snake, y’are. Ye’d go through a man’s clothes while he’s got ’em on, and he wouldn’t notice ye no more’n a puff of wind. Look at yer ’and.”
I held it up and looked at it. A year ago, a month ago, I should have studied it with remorse. Now I did it stupidly, without emotions or regrets.
It was a long, slim hand, resembling the rest of my person. It was strong, however, with big, loosely articulated knuckles and muscular thumbs—again resembling the rest of my person. At the Beaux Arts, and in an occasional architect’s office, it had been spoken of as a “drawing” hand; and Lovey was now pointing out its advantages for other purposes. I laughed to myself.
