Chapter Five

DOUGHFACE JACK was highly elated. He had just done a very clever thing. He had walked out of the university and clear down to Central Park without once being molested. He chuckled about it, very pleased. Although he enjoyed being lionized in the clinics and though the newspaper stories and the pictures of him tickled his fancy, he had been in New York for two months—and being two months in one place was akin to agony to the wanderlust of the tramp.

And so he strolled in the sunshine, easy despite the stiffness of his clothes. Birds were caroling and he could almost imagine that he was in a jungle. Of course, all these people on the walk were not exactly to his taste and the cars which went by on the drive made a lot of noise. But still, even this small freedom was preferable to being dogged night and day by men with thick glasses.

And all would have been well, even then, if a debutante had not fancied herself very powerful in the control of two white wolfhounds.

She came posingly along the walk, dogs straining at the leashes with well-bred eagerness, and glancing around to see if anybody noticed. The girl was wholly unaware of a putty-faced little fellow who came toward her and he was oblivious of her.

At the moment he was watching the clouds roll high overhead. And so he bumped squarely into the wolfhounds and trod on their tender toes.

Instantly they snarled and snapped.

Doughface Jack leaped back, unmanned for the moment. He had a tramp’s true distrust for dogs and he saw two raging beasts, so it seemed, charging to devour him.

He saw he could not run. He must meet them as they sprang.

He mustered up his fighting courage and the two wolfhounds fell dead.

It was as simple as that. One minute they had been springing and the next they lay like two doormats of wool upon the walk.

The girl stared at them in disbelief and then at Doughface Jack. Abruptly she whirled. Far away she spotted a mounted policeman coming on the trot to see what all the snarling had been about.

“HELP! POLICE!” screamed the girl.

“Please,” begged Doughface. “Please, ma’am. I didn’t do nothin’!”

She turned again, glaring and shaking with hot rage. “You murderer! I saw you knife them!”

Doughface Jack blinked at her and then he got just a little bit mad himself.

The girl’s anger faded. She put her hand to her face and her knees became wobbly.

Instantly Doughface was concerned.

The girl stood up straight, mad all over again and very blistering in her language.

“What’s goin’ on here?” snapped the officer. He started to get down from his horse.

Doughface saw danger. Too many years he had run from cops not to run again. In panic he took to his heels. But fate was not kind. There was no way through the hedge along the walk.

The officer heard the girl’s first few words and then he vaulted back into the saddle. With spur he sent his mount rocketing after the fleeing tramp.

Doughface saw that he was done. He envisioned a striking club and perhaps another hospital. He saw himself losing all his prestige. The Law was on his trail.

He could run no farther.

He turned around. He saw he could not win but he had to do something. He struck a belligerent pose.

And the policeman’s horse dropped dead with a mighty crash, spilling the officer to the concrete.

He was not hurt and even as he rolled, the policeman fought to blow his whistle. He blew it, springing up. He glanced at his dead horse and then grabbed Doughface Jack by the arm.

The tramp was shaking with terror. He had not one ounce of scrap in him now that the Law had him securely.

“Please,” he whimpered. “I didn’t mean nothin’. I was just out walkin’.…”

“Mister,” said the tattered officer, “you got some questions to answer. That was Miss DuVrois back there and … and the guy that kills my horse is goin’ to sweat. Plenty!”

And other cops came running at last and Doughface Jack, shaking as though with the ague, certain of his doom, afraid to show any fight, was wheeled off to the precinct to the tune of a wailing siren.

Doughface Jack was caught in an avalanche of blue which bore him out of the wagon, up the steps of the station house, down dingy corridors and into a room where sat a desk sergeant of large dimensions.

“Book this guy for disorderly conduct,” said the outraged mounted patrolman, “until I can sweat some real crimes out of him!”

Again the wave picked up Doughface Jack and hurled him along a corridor and into a room where a white light glared. Doughface landed in the chair and the light bored into his skull and faces ringed him ’round.

“Please,” he whimpered. “I didn’t mean ta …”

“Howja kill them dogs?”

“Howja kill my horse?”

“C’mon, talk!”

“Ja use a knife?”

“Whereja throw it?”

“Y’know this might mean a year in the pen?”

“Howja kill them dogs?”

“Please!” moaned Doughface. “I didn’t do nothin’. I’m the guy with tha-tha eyes. C-Call up tha university. C-C-Call Professor Beardsley. I …”

“So ya won’t talk!”

“Howja kill them dogs?”

“PLEASE! I’m the guy with tha EYES! Call Professor B-B-Beardsley. I didn’ do nothin’. I …”

“So ya won’t talk!”

“Howja kill my horse?”

“PLEASE!” wailed Doughface. “I don’t know. Things happen and I don’t know! I tell you, y’gotta call Professor B-B-Beardsley.”

One of them heard him and grabbed a phone and the third degree was about to begin when he came back.

“Wait! Beardsley said this was the guy with the mito-something eyes. Y’know. In the papers.”

“Yeah, but my horse …”

“Please, please, please,” moaned Doughface. “I …”

“Wait!” cried the man who had phoned. “This guy’s got somethin’ screwy about him. He can cure anythin’ he looks at.” He had their attention now. “And Beardsley says for God’s sake don’t make him mad!”

Doughface couldn’t see very well because of the light but he could sense the way they suddenly drew back. He could see the awe. He sat up straight and scowled, testing it out. They drew back further.

Doughface understood now. They were scared of him or at least they weren’t going to jump him. He had to put up a front and get out quick before they jailed him.

He kicked at the lamp and it spun, taking its light from his face. The officers bristled anew.

Doughface got halfway out of his chair. He was glaring now, getting mad and acting dangerous in the hope that he could cow them.

And an awful thing happened. The men began to get wobbly. One grabbed hold of the table for support and then his knees buckled, letting him down. Another backed to the wall and slipped from there to the carpet. The mounted officer fell flat on his face.

In Doughface Jack’s brain rang the words of Pellman, “Don’t glare at anybody, Jack. Something might happen.” It was happening all right. And he was glad of it.

The last man collapsed before him. They were not dead. He could see them breathing with difficulty. But he had learned something, had Doughface. He had killed dogs with a glare. He had killed a horse by a glare. He had knocked these men out though he was still scared of them.

He marched to the door. He felt too big to walk in a corridor, and though his size had not increased, his perception had.

Abruptly he realized what would happen to him if he was found here with these knocked out cops and in a panic he rushed out into the corridor.

The desk sergeant saw him coming and recognized nothing but an escaping prisoner. He surged up and leaped to block the tramp’s way, brandishing a nightstick.

Doughface started to say, “Please,” but the sergeant was coming too fast. There was no retreat. Doughface took a deep breath and squared off for a glare.

The desk sergeant did a complete somersault and landed at Doughface Jack’s feet. He was breathing but he was a mighty sick man.

Further panic hit Doughface. He dashed like a frightened rabbit out into the street.