SHORT STORY.

Thames Star, Volume LVII, Issue 16081, 22 April 1924, Page 2

SHORT STORY.

THE IDEAL

(.By Eardsley Turner.)

Tharp carelessly swept the silvos and notes from the cardtable an 1 pocketed tliem. Then, rising from his seat, he smilingly remarked in the Yankee drawl he affected at times, “We’ll resume after eats, eh! I've an appointment atone. Lunching with dear old Winchester. But I’ll be right back on the stroke of two. All you birds staying? The three men still seated nodded reply. It's a little bit of biz as well as food,” Tharp continued, ‘‘or l wouldn’t run away.” They nodded again. Each was aware that “the poger fiend” was gong to collect a matter of £‘2so from Winchester—paid of the previous day's remarkable winnings. And each, curiously enough, was asking himself the same question: “How was it that Tharp these latter days was never a loser?” “Tiighto! Then maybe you’ll have your revenge. I'd like you to, E guess.” Still no one spoke. He turned to go. “Look here, boys, my luck’s in, and when it’s like that the devil himself can’t change it, so ” “Looks to me, Tharp, that’s lie’s in with you,” interposed one of the men quietly. “Your run is uncanny.” “Good cards, Blair—that’s all there is to it—good cards. And I’ll tell you what I’ll do. Whose deal is it? Yours, Casson ? Well, a little side bet with you. A level tenner I hold the best hand when we start again. That’s how I feel about it. I’ll be back at this table at two o’clock at the tick. You boys see about the shuffling and dealing a minute beforehand. Jf when I turn up my cards don’t beat yours, Casson wins the tenner. Is it on Cass ?’’ “As you like,” said Casson, without

any great enthusiasm. “It’s a bet. Don’t forget—two o’clock precisely; cards on the table. Au revoir, folks!” And laughingly, jauntily, Tharp strolled out. * * * * He drew near the portals of the hotel in a highly-satisfied frame of mind. Never, indeed, since his arrival in Sydney from the vague regions “overseas” six months before had his spirts been so buoyant. He chuckled to himself “What easy money! Almost a shame to take it. Lord! Hosts of mugs in all parts of this funny old world. But more here, surely, than anywhere else!” And they couldn't say he didn’t give them an occasional chance to get- a bit of their own back. That last bet—a sprat to catch a salmon ! As good as lost already, lie reckoned. He'd pay up cheerfully. Still inwardly chuckling he pulled out and glanced at his watch. Five minutes after one. Good! Better not to appear too eager. Bettor up a hit late than early. Looking ahead, lie saw that his man was before him. Yes, there, waiting on the steps was the over-puntual Winchester. Ah those Sydney business people—always on time bless them! But who was the stranger with whom Winchester was so deep in conversation? The man had his back turned towards him, hut there was something familiar about his build and the cut of his clothes—something that had a queer significance for Tharp. He’d seen the fellow before, lie was certain. Where—where? By God! Yes, of course! It was Lever-

son—Leverson, the Canadian sleuth, the cleverest detective in the whole Dominion. Know him ? Ah! Tharp halted, his brain working quickly now. That little affair in Montreal last year, beginning with cards and ending

with a revolver! Leverson doubtless had the warrant in his pocket. And Winchester knew him ! The hunt was on again. Well, it would mean another trek, and speedily too! He must get away as soon as possible. Hard lines just when he was going to land those few useful hundreds from Winchester. But safety was worth more than a few hundreds. He would let Winchester off the debt. Tharp smiled grimly at the quaint conceit, and at that moment he saw Winchester's hand go up in recognition, the stranger at the same time partly turning to see who was being hailed. A sudden and violent panic, seized Tharp. Flight, instant flight, was the one thought that possessed him. He wheeled round wildly and stepped blunderingly, unseeinglv from the sidewalk to the roadway. Shrill cries and shouts of warnning went up instantly. The loud, sustained screech of the horn of an oncoming motor car sounded deafeningly in his ears. Too late! The car caught him, crushed him beneath its wheels.

The hands of the club clock indicated one minute to two. Assembled at the card-table, more than usually anxious to resume the game, were Tharp’s three fellow-players. “'l’ime’s up, Cass,” said Barrymore. “Deal.”

Casson without coimiH'iit took up a pack of cards and methodically dealt four hands. Then lie sat back in his chair quietly puffing his cigar with a look jif hopeful expectancy on his face. The seconds passed, the timepiece chimed the hour. The sound had barely died away when there was a noise of hurrying feet outside the room; the door was thrown open, and Winchester, ashen-faced, trembling, tottered in, and making straight for the card-table he fell into the vacant seat. “Boys!” be gasped out. “Tharp is dead—killed! A shocking accidentknocked over by a car in Castlereagh street —mangled almost beyond recognition.” A moment’s pause of horror. then Casson exclaimed: “Good God. Winchester! How—where did you get the news?” “I was there, man and saw the whole thing—wish I hadn’t been. He bad an appointment to lunch with me. as you know. I was on the steps talking to old Bert Floyd, just down from Queensland, when I saw Tharp coming towards us. Suddenly,

just as I spotted him. lie, for no • apparent reason, turned hurriedly back as if to cross the road. Went headlong. didn't see a big six-sea ter that was 'almost on top of him when he plunged off the pavement. Extraordinary— horrible! All over in a second. Poor devil! Ring, someone, for God’s sake, and let's have a drink!” For a space there was a tense, dreadful silence. Then, with a flippancy that seemed out of place, Blair said. “A bit of a let-off for you. Winchester—what ?” “And we are waiting for him. He was coming back to give us our revenge,” murmured Barrymore. “Ah. well! Put the cards up. Cass. The game's over for the day.” “Yes,” assented C'asson. “But wait —our bet! How would it have gone?” ' He picked up Tharp’s hand and looked at the cards. “Good heavens, boys —what do you make of that?” Face upwards lie spread the cards on the table. He had dealt Tharp a Royal Flush! (The End.)