Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

While his body fought for its life, steadily losing power against the tireless water, his mind grew curiously calm and detached, as though this diminished world in which he struggled could make no demands upon it. Was he being a fool, he wondered? His mind deliberately weighed this, while he admired the clarity of his thinking. He had come to the fork in the road, his mind told him. He had rejected the easy path that led to — nothing. It was now all out, and nothing suffered to block him, even the risk of his own life. He was not being a fool.

Now it seemed impossible that he could lift each arm one more time. He was out past the edge of endurance, almost past the edge of consciousness, but the thought held fast: those kids must not drown.

He made it, of course, that single-minded purpose driving him to his object. After he dropped his feet onto the knoll, he fastened the line to the sturdiest and highest limbs he could find among the brush, praying that it would hold. He sized up the kids quickly and sent the larger and huskier of the two back along the line by himself.

He waited until he was sure the kid was making it, then started the other one off, staying right with him. Twice the force of the water began to tear the boy off the rope, but Cummins grabbed him and held him, bulling him along until he regained his grip.

“Why, you’re a hero, a blasted hero,” Tuttle told him when the boys were safe on the ridge, sitting huddled together, resting. “That was a fine thing to do, Sheldon.”

Cummins regarded him contemptuously, and swivelled his head to make sure the boys were out of hearing range. “Save your praise, Sam,” he said. “I did it for only one reason — a million dollars.”

“Clear that up, will you.”

“You slipping, Sam? You can’t be that dense. Suppose the two little punks drowned on my property. That’s news, isn’t it? Headline news a lot of places. The national papers would carry something on it. Florida Flash Flood Drowns Two Youngsters in Real Estate Development. I might as well fold up and steal away after that. Nobody would pay a dime for this property. You don’t think I want to spend my declining years selling insurance, do you?”

Tuttle bowed satirically. “Forgive me for misjudging you. Ever the promoter, eh Sheldon? As a public relations man the aspect you mention should have occurred to me, but I was too concerned about the boys’ danger. Foolish of me. I must he, as you say, slipping.”

“Now, this way,” went on Cummins, “it doesn’t matter too much if the boys chatter about what happened. A close shave is hardly news. Oh, it might make a local paper or two, but that’s about all. The kids are alive, that’s the main thing. Corpses we don’t need around here.”

“I admire your logic,” said Tuttle. He glanced at Cummins meditatively. “You’d do anything for money, wouldn’t you, Sheldon?”

“For enough money. Like anybody else. Don’t you go superior on me, Sam, we’re all the same, all of us humans. The only difference is the price. Everybody has their price, five hundred, five thousand or five million. For me a million does it. I’d do anything for a million. You didn’t jump in after those boys because there was only thirty-five thousand in it for you. Not enough.”

“Plus the fact that I can’t swim.”

The rain began to patter down more strongly again, and Cummins looked worriedly over at the boys. Couldn’t have them contracting pneumonia either; had to get them under shelter. They’d return to the shack.

When they were all inside the old building, Cummins regarded the youngsters keenly. They seemed to be about fifteen or sixteen years old, neither too well built although one was slightly taller. The taller one had a broad jaw, open blue eyes and freckles. The other was spindly looking with sharp features and a narrow head and a weak button of a chin. His eyes seemed perpetually half-closed and flat.

“We want to thank you again for pulling us out of there, Mister,” said the spindly one. He said it reluctantly, as though grudging the necessity.

“That’s all right, that’s all right,” returned Cummins genially. “As long as you kids are safe. Where you from?”

“New York.” The boy pulled up a leg of his worn jeans and scratched casually.

“New York. That’s a long way off. What are you doing all the way down here?”

“Seeing the country.”

“Where are your folks?”

The boy jerked a thumb at his companion. “Joe there, he doesn’t have any. Mine arc still in New York, I guess.”

“You guess? What did you do, run away?”

The boy shrugged. “Nothing to run away from. The old man’s a booze hound. My old lady, well let’s forget her. They ain’t missing me.”

“What’s your name?”

The boy’s grin was almost a snarl. “Elias. Elias Smith. That’s Joe Jones over there.”

“Oh, come on!”

The boy nodded his head vigorously, grinning. “Sure, that’s us. Smith and Jones. Jones and Smith,” He laughed.

“Now don’t get smart,” said Cummins heavily. “What were you doing on this property?”

“Sight-seeing.”

“I’m losing my patience,” said Cummins.