The best short stories of 1920, and the yearbook of the American short story
General
The best short stories of 1920, and the yearbook of the American short story
American fiction -- 20th century; Short stories -- 20th century -- Bibliography; Short stories -- 20th century -- Indexes; Short stories, American
While Tolliver stared Joe abandoned his masquerade. Wide-eyed, he got
lightly to his feet and started for the trap.
Instinctively, Tolliver's hand started for the drawer where customarily
the revolver was kept. Then he remembered, and was sorry he had sent the
revolver to Sally. For it was clear that the poison in Joe's brain was
sending him to the house while Tolliver was chained to the tower. He
would have shot, he would have killed, to have kept the man here. He
would do what he could with his hands.
"Where you going?" he asked hoarsely.
Joe laughed happily.
"To keep Sally company while you look after the special and
thirty-three."
Tolliver advanced cautiously, watching for a chance. When he spoke his
voice had the appealing quality of a child's.
"It's my time off. If I do your work you got to stay at least."
Joe laughed again.
"No. It only needs you to keep all those people from getting killed."
Tolliver sprang then, but Joe avoided the heavier, clumsier man. He
grasped a chair, swinging it over his head.
"I'll teach you," he grunted, "to kick me out like dirt. I'll teach you
and Sally."
With violent strength he brought the chair down. Tolliver got his hands
up, but the light chair crashed them aside and splintered on his head.
He fell to his knees, reaching out blindly. He swayed lower until he lay
stretched on the floor, dimly aware of Joe's descending steps, of the
slamming of the lower door, at last of a vicious pounding at his bruised
brain.
"NT. NT. NT."
He struggled to his knees, his hands at his head.
"No, by God! I won't listen to you."
"Thirty-three cleared LR at 12:47."
One tower north! Thirty-three was coming down on him, but he was only
glad that the pounding had ceased. It commenced again.
"NT. NT. NT. Special cleared JV at 12:48."
Each rushing towards each other with only a minute's difference in
schedule! That was close--too close. But what was it he had in his mind?
Suddenly he screamed. He lurched to his feet and leant against the wall.
He knew now. Joe, with those infused and criminal eyes, had gone to
Sally and Sonny--to get even. There could be nothing in the world as
important as that. He must get after Joe. He must stop him in time.
"NT. NT. NT."
There was something in his brain about stopping a train in time.
"It only needs you to keep all those people from getting killed."
Somebody had told him that. What did it mean? What had altered here in
the tower all at once?
There was no longer any red.
"NT. NT. NT."
"I won't answer."
Where had he put his cap and coat. He needed them. He could go without.
He could kill a beast without. His foot trembled on the first step.
"NT. NT. NT. Why don't you answer? What's wrong. No O. K. Are you
burning fuses? Wake up. Send an O. K."
The sounder crashed frantically. It conquered him.
He lurched to the table, touched the key, and stuttered out:
"O. K. NT."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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