Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 25, No. 2, August 13, 1927

A cheerful song greeted Big Scar when he reached the box car and rested his unshaven chin on the door sill:

“Oh, th’ lady-loves, th’ lady-loves,
Take ’em away—
Oh, bring them back to me!
I’ve been out East — I’ve been out West.
Oh, take ’em — oh, bring them—”

“Hello, bo!” throated Big Scar Guffman.

The occupant of the sidedoor Pullman dropped a frying pan on a sheet iron stove and wheeled with the quickness of a cat. He worked his brows up and down and peered at the prying yegg. Big Scar hooked a knee over the door sill and climbed inside the car. He lunged at the man.

“Mitt me!” said he, offering a hand. “I’m Guffman. Me moniker is Big Scar — cause of this scar on me cheek. Remember me? We did a bit together in th’ big house at Columbus, Ohio. Remember th’ principal keeper there. They used to call him Jimmy Ball.”

“Sure,” grinned the sidedoor Pullman tourist. “I’m called the Phantom Kid now. I wasn’t then. I quit larceny. I was so full of it in the old days I was breakin’ out all th’ time — like th’ measles. Now me graft, Scar, is workin’ th’ railroads — for what I can get. See that box over there?”

Big Scar scowled at a box that resembled a telegraph operator’s layout. It contained an aluminium bar sounder, a key, batteries and several coils of wire. A pair of well-worn climbers was beside the box.

“That’s all th’ tools I carry,” explained the Phantom Kid. “Th’ dicks can’t pinch me for havin’ them in my possession. I taps th’ train dispatcher’s wires, when I feel like movin’ along, an’ orders th’ trains to pick me up. I spent th’ winter rollin’ around Florida; last year I was all over th’ West; I’m restin’ here until th’ next notion seizes me.”

“S-o,” grunted Big Scar, caught with the idea. “That’s fine — for me — ’cause I’ve got to meet with th’ mob at Bedbug Island, an’ that’s thirty miles from here. Told them in a letter I’d be there to-day. Bedbug Island is out in th’ river, between Hangman’s Ferry an’ Finchburg.”

Big Scar moved toward the stove; he plucked a slice of bacon from the top and cooled it between his fingers as he continued:

“Get out y’ur juice box, Kid. Shin up th’ nearest pole an’ tell th’ conductor of th’ next train goin’ North to pick this car up an’ put k on th’ sidin’ at Hangman’s Ferry. Y’u know how to do it, Kid. If y’u don’t do it — I got a dog outside that eats bigger men than y’u. Th’ dog’s name is Spot. He’s waitin’ for some of th’ scoffins we smelled y’u cookin’!”

The yegg poised the slice of bacon. “Gawan!” he repeated to the Phantom Kid, who was fifty years old and about one half Big Scar’s size. “Sling that juice an’ get us picked up. I ain’t promisin’ nothin’, but I’m due for a big job with th’ mob on Bedbug Island an’ I may cut y’u in for a piece of it.”

Slightly appeased, the Phantom Kid lifted his instrument box, tucked the climbing irons under one arm, and approached the door. He stared down at Spot, whose eyes gleamed.

“Won’t bite y’u unless I give th’ word,” said Big Scar. “I got him trained to do whatever I want him to do, by signs. He’s great for chasin’ off other dogs when I’m hittin’ th’ main stem for handouts. An’,” added Big Scar, “th’ bulls, seein’ me with a dog followin’, think I’m a tomato can vag. Spot’s a good stall.”

II

The phantom kid leaped down; Big Scar selected two slices of bacon, inserted them between two thick chunks of bread, and munched on the meal as he watched the Phantom Kid climb a pole, cut a wire, make a number of splices, and listen in on the train dispatchers as they gave orders for the trains on the Susquehanna and Southern Railroad.

“Pretty soft,” mused Big Scar, after wiping his lips with a sleeve. “Here’s what I call luxury. Sidedoor Pullman, signs on th’ sides of it ‘Construction,’ a swell bunk to kip in, and all y’u have to do is to tap wires to be taken most anywhere. Maybe the Kid’s havin’ trouble,” he added with concern when the time lengthened.

His old prison pal came down the slippery pole, finally. “All set,” announced the Kid. “We’re to be picked up by Extra East No. 12. Th’ station agent at Greenbrier got th’ order. What are you goin’ to do with th’ mutt?”

Big Scar reached down and called to Spot. He lifted the dog with an easy heave. “I’ll close th’ door,” said the Kid. “An’ I’ll douse th’ fire. Them railroad shacks on them locals are curious. No use letting them in.”

The box car, after being bumped and jerked for thirty miles, was sidetracked near the ferry house at Hangman’s Ferry. Big Scar sprang to the cinders: he called to Spot, then, after the dog had leaped down, he instructed the Kid:

“Keep my private car right there. Maybe I’ll need it, an’ maybe I won’t, to-night. It’s a swell get-away, an’ I don’t just trust th’ mob I’m goin’ to meet.”