THE SUPREME GETAWAY AND OTHER TALES FROM THE PULPS
George Allan England
THE SUPREME GETAWAY AND OTHER TALES FROM THE PULPS
George Allan England
THE SUPREME GETAWAY AND OTHER TALES FROM THE PULPS
Copyright © 2008 by Wildside Press, LLC.
www.wildsidepress.com
All rights reserved.
*
“Introduction,” by John Betancourt is original to this collection and is copyright © 2008 by John Betancourt. “The Supreme Getaway” originally appeared in People’s Magazine, October 1916. “A Flyer In Junk” originally appeared in All Story, March 9, 1918. “The Silo” originally appeared in Argosy-All Story, date unknown. “Fire Fight Fire” originally appeared in Munsey’s Magazine, Vol. 35 (1906). “Speed Limit” originally appeared in The Cavalier, November 15, 1913. “The Longest Side” originally appeared in People’s Favorite Magazine November 10, 1921. “Test Tubes” originally appeared in Short Stories, March, 1921. “In Mariners’ House” originally appeared in The Cavalier, February 7, 1914. “Rough Toss” originally appeared in Complete Stories, May 15th, 1932. “Africa” originally appeared in The Cavalier, November 1908. “A Worth-While Crime” originally appeared in Detective Story Magazine, August 19, 1922
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION, by John Gregory Betancourt
THE SUPREME GETAWAY
A FLYER IN JUNK
THE SILO
FIRE FIGHT FIRE
SPEED LIMIT
THE LONGEST SIDE
TEST TUBES
IN MARINERS’ HOUSE
ROUGH TOSS
AFRICA
A WORTH-WHILE CRIME
INTRODUCTION
George Allan England (1877–1936) is mostly remembered these days for his early science-fiction novel, Darkness and Dawn (originally published in Cavalier magazine as three different serials between 1912 and 1913). Set a thousand years in the future, Darkness and Dawn tells the story of a devastated America. Due to its length, it was split into five volumes for paperback publication in the 1960s.
Other works of note include The Air Trust (1915), an anticapitalism novel about a monopoly on air travel; The Golden Blight (1912), about a ray that transmutes gold into ash; The Flying Legion (1920), a near-future (of the time!) tale of the heist of a sacred relic from Mecca; and The Empire of the Air (1914), about an invasion by beings from the fourth dimension.
England, however, was a prolific author in many different genres: adventure, romance, mystery, and science fiction were but a few of his themes, as the stories in this volume attest. Here, then are eleven of England’s classic pulp stories, ranging from Darkest Africa to the laboratory, from the perils of speed to the perils of savage cannibals! If you haven’t encountered George Allan England’s work before, you’re in for a treat. And if you’ve already discovered him, chances are high that you’ve never encountered any of these rare tales before.
Enjoy!
THE SUPREME GETAWAY
“SERENE, INDIFFERENT TO FATE.” Slatsey leaned back with a sigh of almost perfect bliss in the huge, padded Morris chair and drew at his priceless panatela.
Dr. Bender, in the depths of a leather rocking chair, his slippered feet on the table, smiled with beatitude.
For their rooms in the extreme privacy of the neat little Hotel de Luxe were marvels of bachelor comfort.
On the table reposed a tray with fragmentary remnants of a delectable feed — always including Pod’s ultimate joy, rich rice pudding with lots of butter and cream, and with fat raisins of the juiciest.
“Pretty smooth dump, this,” grunted Pod, with another sigh. During the past weeks of inactivity and gorging, he had put on a trifle of forty or fifty pounds.
“Me for the De Looks, every time! Ever since the big gilt dropped into our kicks, after that Vanderpool race, an’ we stowed away, I’ve been strong for the resher-shay stuff they hand out here. The way they act certainly makes a hit with muh!”
“And no fly-cops butting in, either,” added Ben. “I tell you, Pod, this con-throwing isn’t such a much, beside the real refinements of a home like this. Now that we’ve brought home the bunting, me for squaring it, a bundle of A-1 bonds, and respectability.
“That’s my dope — that, and a continuation of this chow, with a little something dry on the side. What more could a couple of honest, retired congents require?”
Pod sighed again, still more deeply; but this sigh held less of happiness than the first.
Bender’s reference to “home” had stirred the smoldering coals of a new sentiment in his huge heart — love-coals, now being blown upon by Birdy McCue.
And in Pod’s disturbed mind visions began to rise. Not even the memories of rice and raisins could quite smother the growing flame.
Birdy was the pals’ own particular waitress. Her complexion was of cream and rose-petals, her eyes a May-sky blue, her luxuriant hair a yellow wherein no H2O2 had ever mingled its corrupting influence.
Birdy’s bare arm was firm and rounded and very white, also her V-cut waitress’s shirtwaist disclosed a full throat, and her apron-straps rested over a more than Junoesque bosom.
In addition to all this, an occasional glimpse of her ankle as she swung in and out the double-doors of the dining room disclosed it to be of that trim and silk-stockinged variety which oft-times leads to reveries.
In fine, Birdy was one buxom, healthy, beautiful young woman, full of life and the joy of life, weighing-one hundred and forty-two, age twenty-five, ripe and fair — yes, a peach.
Pod sighed for the third time, very heavily, and forgot to smoke. Had his rubicund face been capable of it, he would have paled slightly.
Ben shot a quick, keen glance at him, by the mellow light of the frosted electric table-lamp. His brow wrinkled. Did he, too, sigh; or was it an extra deep inhalation of the perfumed cigarette-smoke he loved so well?
Pod noticed neither the look nor the possible sigh of his running-mate. For he was thinking — of Birdy; pondering on the blissful existence of the past few weeks, so warm, well-fed, and secure, disturbed only by the gnawings of the insistent love-bug which, its period of . . . incubation now past, was beginning to bite in real earnest.
He was mentally reviewing the situation. He had, well he knew, made no false step; he felt himself in favor with his Juno.
The first day at the De Luxe he had slipped her a five-spot, from an obese roll.
“This is just kind of a starter, kid,” he had remarked nonchalantly. “I’m an extensive feeder, an’ I want you to remember me. I can talk to a chicken egg cassy-roll louder than any man in Manhat.
“I can reach further an’ stab a pie deeper than a Mafia knifing a snitch, an’ I hold the international rice-puddin’ long-distance record, bar none.
“Crab-meat is where I live, see? I’ll stow away grouse and truffles against all comers. Are you on? You be the fixin’ kid and keep things comin’; shove a little chick lunch up to the room every p.m. about eleven; let me do the bill o’ fare through, an’ repeat, an’ you’ll gather. Got it?”
“I’m on!” she had smiled with a dazzle of white teeth. “And your friend?”
“Oh, him? Say, he’s dyspeptic. A good fella, you know, but — It’s me that’s the bear on eats. So chase ’em in lively, kiddo, and — you know!”
Birdy had remembered, and had chased ’em in. Every night, too, the tray had come up to No. 18 with succulent dainties piled; and not once had there been dearth of sugared rice-pudding and raisins simply bursting with juice.
And the love-bug, hidden among all those ambrosial dainties, had bitten deep. Now Pod was simply one vast culture-medium for the virus.
Every ounce of his three hundred and fifty-seven pounds was potentially enamored of a goddess who could steer such eats to him. Which made the case extremely serious.
“Say, Ben!”
“Huh?”
Pod only shifted uneasily in the huge chair, and sucked at his smoke, which had gone out.
“Oh, nothin’,” he mumbled. “I was just thinkin’, that’s all.”
About a week after this first faint flapping of the wings of self-exposition, a wonderful September moon, full and round and golden, shone through the heat of the city haze and flooded the windows of the pals’ sitting room. They sat smoking, lights out, with their feet on the sill; and the magic of the night, the orb, the breeze, stirred Slats to confidences.
“Say, Ben,” he commenced once more, embarrassed as a schoolboy. He could face the world with a smile, and “con” it without batting an eye; but to open his huge heart to his pal caused the sweat to bead his brow. Uneasily he mopped it. “Ben?”
“Huh?”
“Say — you an’ me — we — you know.”
“Know what? Uneasy? Want to beat out on the pike again, and put the trimming tools to work once more? Forget it! All off, Bo! We —”
“Back up! You’re in wrong! You an’ me, we’ve been runnin’-mates now for ten or twelve years. We’ve nicked high an’ panhandled low. Sometimes we’ve been on the outside, lookin’ in, sometimes the reverse.
“We’ve got ours in about every known country in the world, an’ some unknown countries; we’ve laid on velvet an’ again on the rods. Our little mob of two has certainly been some swell mob, an’ you’ve been one classy pal, but — well —”
“Well, what?” demanded Ben, with a sharp, half-guilty glance at the huge bulk beside him in the moonlight. “What you got on your chest?”
“I — this — I mean, this single life proposition ain’t the silky frame-up it’s touted to be, after all,” Pod continued hoarsely.
“When a gink is young an’ everythin’s fallin’ his way, he naturally rolls away from anythin’ permanent in the skirt line. All right! But when the ivories begins to shy off and the noble brow begins to connect with the neck, right over the dome of the bean — aw, nothin’ to it, kid, nothin’ to it!”
Slats made an out-sweep with his huge fist, as though to drive dull bachelorhood away, and sighed powerfully. “It’s then a man gets ripe to tumble for something smooth in the she-line, Ben! It’s then he’s the fall guy for the cozy home idea! Say! Ain’t you never framed it, what? Ain’t you never fell for none o’ this here cream stuff, yourself?”
Ben only shifted uneasily in his chair, and grunted something unintelligible.
One might have thought a sudden chill of hostility had all at once fallen over him; but if so, Slats took no heed. Instead, with a rapt smile at the moon and a new timbre in his mighty voice, he went on resistlessly:
“Love, ah, love! It’s some best bet, believe me. It’s a right steer, an’ no come-back! Love builds the cottage where the birds do a warble an’ they’s ivy round the door, like in them illustrated songs, Ben.
“Love comes across with the prattle of innocent voices an’ the patter of feet that ain’t never hiked on no White Ways. Love greets you at the door with a glad fin, after you’ve had the rough toss outside.
“It bats you on the knob with baby mitts an’ whispers ‘Dad!’ in your receiver. It sets on your knee an’ hands you a kiss, front o’ the fireplace when the snow is blowin’ outside. Oh, it’s the smooth proposition, kid, surest thing you know!”
“Uh-huh?”
“Nix on this rovin’, Ben! Nix, not, no more! No more raw deals. All it means is, even hidin’ up like here, always afraid somebody’s goin’ to cook us, after all.
“It means stir, in time; a slip-up, somewhere, some day; and for a finish, the slab an’ the table. I been thinkin’, kid, thinkin’ long an’ hard.
“Me for the happy home, the family, the peachy frau, the lawn-mower, hose, garden, an’ all thereto appertain-in’. An’ when it’s time to blow my light out, no crocus carvin’ me an’ no pine board, but a right pebble over me, plumb respectable, Ben — past all squared an’ forgotten — A-1 turn-out with a dozen hacks, an’ the ‘Sacred to the Memory of’ just as big as any of ’em!”
Pause. Silence. In the moonlight a close observer could have perceived the huge fellow’s Adam’s-apple working convulsively, while a tear gleamed in his blinking eye.
Ben seemed pondering. Up to the pals, from the asphalted side street, rose a clack-clack-clack of hoofs. A trolley-gong clashed on the avenue, and, farther off, the roar of an L train broke the evening calm.
Ben, his face very grim, yet with a certain air of relief, tossed his cigar out of the window and turned toward his side-partner.
“Straight dope?” he demanded sternly. “No phony gag, but the real thing?”
“Realest ever! I got the love-bug, kid. It’s put this con life of ours on the fritz, for fair! I’m goin’ to square it, an’ be a hick, myself. Why? You ain’t peeved with me, are you?”
“Peeved nothing! Delighted! Here, let me mitt you, old boy. Go to it!”
Ben thrust out his hand, which Pod wrung with a sudden burst of gratitude and affection.
“That’s the way to pass it out!” exclaimed the big fellow, in a choking voice. “I been leary of pullin’ it on you, kid, ’cause I didn’t know but you’d sit up and howl. But I see now —”
“You’re on. Congratulations! Fact is, old boy, the same idea has been flagging me, too, some time past. Only I didn’t hardly dare to pull it on you. But now —”
“You?” blurted Pod, gaping. “You stung, too? My Gawd! So then, if we split, it’ll be O. K. on both sides, an’ both of us in the clover-bed? Fine! Who’s the skirt, Ben? Who, what, an’ where?”
A knock on the door interrupted this heart-to-heart.
“Come!” boomed Slats.
A bellhop appeared with the usual evening tray, neatly overspread with a spotless damask. As though well used to the task, he switched on the light, and deftly spread the festive board on the pals’ center table.
The two old friends and co-grafters watched the proceedings with satisfaction. Evidently, love as yet had not advanced to the stage where appetite had begun to fail.
His work done, the hop departed. Pod and Ben drew up to the bounteous feast, but something was on the big fellow’s mind. He gazed on the pudding and shook his head, then glanced at his pal inquiringly.
“Ben?”
“What?”
“You didn’t know I was some writer, did you?”
Ben, just unfolding his napkin, stared in amazement.
“Writer? Scratch-work, or how?”
“No, billy-doo’s. Say, Ben, I — I don’t feel like the eats till I’ve got this off my chest, like. I want you to listen to this here letter I’ve doped out for — for her, you tumble.
“Listen, an’ then throw me the straight spiel. Is it the right goods or ain’t it? Is it billed to make a center-shot an’ ring the bell, the weddin’-bell, or — or is it a frosty freeze? Is —”
“You mean you’ve been framing some love-stuff?”
Slats nodded.
“Just hold back on the feeds till you let this trickle into your think-tank,” he adjured, producing a folded sheet of scented lavender paper from his breast pocket, left side, nearest the cardiac apparatus.
“Go ahead and fire!” exclaimed Ben, eagerly eying the tray.
“All right, kid. Now, you just listen to some proposal!”
*
Hotel de Luxe,
Today and Every Day.
My Own Hummingbird! My Bunch Of Velvet Taffy!
Oh, you kid! This is to Wise you that you have certainly Put one over hard on Yours Forever. For many years I thought I never would Kick in on this here Love whirl, but you have Sloughed me for fair. To say you are the Goods, is putting it so feeble it’s almost an insult. When I gaze upon you, I am just
Nuts to tear into the Sweet Home racket, with Ivy round the door. Do you get me, Hun?
I am truly Dippy to throw my Net over you and cop yon off, all for my lonesome. I’ve got the strong Hunch we could lope to where the Roses bloom and the robins nest again, and you would be my Dove and I would be your Pouter pigeon for life.
*
“Say, Ben, ain’t that some poetical?”
*
You are my great, big beautiful Doll, believe me! This is no needle monologue, but the goods, and I have the Wad to back it. The first time I ever Lamped you, it was a knockout, and I took the mat for ten. I could see you Coming, even then, and ever since, you’ve been Getting it on me, worse and more of it, Now, Dear heart, don’t Crab a loving soul by no icy Mitt gag, for believe me, though I may not be such a Romeo to look at, my heart and Bundle are in the right place.
I know I could carry some class, myself, with you for a running-mate. When I get my front on, I’m not half hard to behold. And I’m strictly on the Level in this deal, no Phony. You tie up to me, and you’ll know you’ve got a real man, no Shrimp half portions, but the 18-K article.
.
The Rose is red, the Grass is green,
You are my Queen,
The fairest ever Seen,
So be mine, or I’ll repine,
Be my Love, my beautiful Dove,
And forever I’ll be true to you,
With Ivy twining round the door!
*
Pod paused, breathing heavily, and swabbed his brow with a napkin.
“How about it, kid?” he demanded anxiously. “Is it the goods, or ain’t it? Poetry, too!”
“Some literature, all right!” asserted Ben, gazing away, “But do you think ‘you’ and ‘door’ make an O. K. rime? ‘You’ and ‘in the stew’ would go, but —”
Slats snorted with disgust.
“Stew, you lob!” he cried. “That shows how much poetic feelin’ you got! Why, this here’s blank verse, the last two lines. Blank verse! That’s the swellest kind!”
“Oh, that’s so, too. I forgot. It’s blank, all right. Yes, it’s the goods. Any more?”
