as a servant.
A small man with a malformation of the back that was felt more than actually seen. A man with a face almost hideous in its homeliness but with exceptionally intelligent, kindly brown eyes peering out at you from all the ugliness.
There were somber shadows in the eyes, now.
“Yes?” the ugly small man said.
“We’d like to see Mr. Ritter,” said Smitty. There had been silence in the back. Now, there were more of the queer screams, followed by a long moaning. The ugly little man looked as if he were about to moan, too.
“Mr. Ritter isn’t here just now,” he said.
“You’re sure?” said Smitty.
“Quite sure,” retorted the ugly one. “I am Mr. Ritter’s personal servant; so I should know.”
More shrieks. Smitty started toward the door.
“I’m sorry,” said the little man hastily, barring the way. “Terribly sorry. If you will come back in an hour—”
He was trying to bar the door, and Smitty was having none of it. The giant pushed door and servant back without effort.
Smitty had placed that shriek. He thought it was, incredibly, from a dog. And anything that put a dog in such agony that its cries of pain became almost unrecognizable was a matter of extreme importance to Smitty. He liked dogs.
Josh followed close on the heels of the big fellow, with the ugly little man, distress in his eyes, trying all the time to get in front of them and insisting that Mr. Ritter was not in the house.
The front hall led straight from the big main door back through the center of the house to a large, glassed rear door. And that door, in turn, opened onto a rear terrace.
The little servant stopped trying to block their way; he saw it was no use as they got to the rear door. He had done his best.
Smitty and Josh went onto the terrace, stopped aghast at what they saw, then hurried on with fists instinctively clenched.
There was a small terrier, tied up close to the base of an iron urn. The terrier was screaming and trying to twist away from the whistling blows of a whip that seemed made of fine, cutting, copper wire. And the wielder of the diabolical whip was a man whose face had been pictured in all the nation’s papers at one time or another.
But Edwin Ritter’s face had never been caught by a camera as Smitty and Josh saw it now.
His face was a devil’s mask. The lips were curved up in a frightful grin. The eyes were almost closed as the whip whistled down. Little muscles in the cheeks jerked with every blow. It was a face out of hell.
Just one last blow Ritter got in when he sensed the presence of others. Instantly, he whirled toward Josh and Smitty, and as instantly his face changed.
It became benevolent, regretful, pained, sorrowful—but stern.
“Gentlemen,” Ritter said, “I’m extremely sorry you should chance to come here at such a time. My poor dog. It distresses me so much to have to discipline it now and then. Yet, discipline is necessary. Not a very nice sight for visitors to see, though, is it? Knarlie!” The bland, benevolent expression still held, but cords in the man’s throat suddenly stood out in a frenzy of carefully veiled anger. “Knarlie, why did you show visitors out here?”
The ugly-looking servant opened his mouth to speak but seemed to realize there was nothing to say and only spread his hands. Then he left the terrace, looking stricken and frightened. And well he might. For the last person on earth to be caught in such a scene was a man who wanted to be president of the United States some day.
Josh saw Smitty’s big hands quivering for action. But the giant couldn’t break this man’s neck or use the dog’s whip on him as he ached to do.
“We’re from the press,” Smitty said, taking a malicious pleasure in seeing Ritter’s face go deadly white and his lips twitch in terror. “We came to check on the banquet proceedings last night.”
“I gave all the details it was seemly for me to give to others from the papers,” Ritter said, very,
A small man with a malformation of the back that was felt more than actually seen. A man with a face almost hideous in its homeliness but with exceptionally intelligent, kindly brown eyes peering out at you from all the ugliness.
There were somber shadows in the eyes, now.
“Yes?” the ugly small man said.
“We’d like to see Mr. Ritter,” said Smitty. There had been silence in the back. Now, there were more of the queer screams, followed by a long moaning. The ugly little man looked as if he were about to moan, too.
“Mr. Ritter isn’t here just now,” he said.
“You’re sure?” said Smitty.
“Quite sure,” retorted the ugly one. “I am Mr. Ritter’s personal servant; so I should know.”
More shrieks. Smitty started toward the door.
“I’m sorry,” said the little man hastily, barring the way. “Terribly sorry. If you will come back in an hour—”
He was trying to bar the door, and Smitty was having none of it. The giant pushed door and servant back without effort.
Smitty had placed that shriek. He thought it was, incredibly, from a dog. And anything that put a dog in such agony that its cries of pain became almost unrecognizable was a matter of extreme importance to Smitty. He liked dogs.
Josh followed close on the heels of the big fellow, with the ugly little man, distress in his eyes, trying all the time to get in front of them and insisting that Mr. Ritter was not in the house.
The front hall led straight from the big main door back through the center of the house to a large, glassed rear door. And that door, in turn, opened onto a rear terrace.
The little servant stopped trying to block their way; he saw it was no use as they got to the rear door. He had done his best.
Smitty and Josh went onto the terrace, stopped aghast at what they saw, then hurried on with fists instinctively clenched.
There was a small terrier, tied up close to the base of an iron urn. The terrier was screaming and trying to twist away from the whistling blows of a whip that seemed made of fine, cutting, copper wire. And the wielder of the diabolical whip was a man whose face had been pictured in all the nation’s papers at one time or another.
But Edwin Ritter’s face had never been caught by a camera as Smitty and Josh saw it now.
His face was a devil’s mask. The lips were curved up in a frightful grin. The eyes were almost closed as the whip whistled down. Little muscles in the cheeks jerked with every blow. It was a face out of hell.
Just one last blow Ritter got in when he sensed the presence of others. Instantly, he whirled toward Josh and Smitty, and as instantly his face changed.
It became benevolent, regretful, pained, sorrowful—but stern.
“Gentlemen,” Ritter said, “I’m extremely sorry you should chance to come here at such a time. My poor dog. It distresses me so much to have to discipline it now and then. Yet, discipline is necessary. Not a very nice sight for visitors to see, though, is it? Knarlie!” The bland, benevolent expression still held, but cords in the man’s throat suddenly stood out in a frenzy of carefully veiled anger. “Knarlie, why did you show visitors out here?”
The ugly-looking servant opened his mouth to speak but seemed to realize there was nothing to say and only spread his hands. Then he left the terrace, looking stricken and frightened. And well he might. For the last person on earth to be caught in such a scene was a man who wanted to be president of the United States some day.
Josh saw Smitty’s big hands quivering for action. But the giant couldn’t break this man’s neck or use the dog’s whip on him as he ached to do.
“We’re from the press,” Smitty said, taking a malicious pleasure in seeing Ritter’s face go deadly white and his lips twitch in terror. “We came to check on the banquet proceedings last night.”
“I gave all the details it was seemly for me to give to others from the papers,” Ritter said, very,
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