Read Online The Avenger 34 - The Glass Man by Kenneth Robeson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kenneth Robeson
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bonds. “Now let us see what we can gather together in the way of weapons.”
There were several cartons stacked in the rear of the panel truck, most containing canned and packaged foods.
“Lima beans,” Jenny Keaton read off the side of a box, “creamed corn . . . Don’t spot anything that says hand guns or pole axes.”
Prying up the lid of a cardboard carton of canned beans, Cole peered in. “Really is tinned goods.”
“At least we won’t starve.”
“Loan me one of your stockings, Jen.”
“Planning to compete with Konrad?”
“Give me the sock and then stand by for a demonstration of man’s inventive mind at work.”
“I’d love to do my bit, but I haven’t had a pair of nylons—or even rayons—since fall of 1942. These stockings are the painted-on kind.”
“Forgive me for not noticing.” Cole hopped, took off his right shoe. He removed one of his argyle socks. “This plaid, by the way, is the official tartan of the Clan MacMurdie.” After returning his shoe to his bare foot Cole selected a can of beans and stuffed it into his sock. He jiggled the sock until the can was bulging at the toe end. “And thus, using only a few everyday items found around the average household, boys and girls, we’ve made a perfectly useful blackjack. Don’t miss the next issue when Edison Bell will tell you how to use one of your mother’s old—”
“Will that thing work?”
Cole swung the improvised blackjack and made a substantial dent in the side of one of the cartons. “Should work nearly as well on Herr Konrad’s noggin.”
“The only problem now is to get close enough to use it.”
“Wait until . . . Hello! We seem to be turning off the road.”
“Think we’ve arrived?”
“Yes, I’d guess that we’re fast approaching our destination,” said Cole. “Excuse the lack of a more imaginative stratagem, but let’s use the old sick-prisoner dodge.” He hurried over to the place where he’d originally been dumped and lay down on his back with his hands behind him. The homemade blackjack was underneath him, along with the ropes he’d gotten out of. “When they come to fetch us, explain that I had a fit. Might go so far as to suggest I foamed a bit before I fell into my present stupor. That should bring at least one of them within sapping range.”
The truck was bouncing and bumping considerably now. A few more dips and it came to a stop.
“Hands behind you. Look captive. And feign concern for me.”
“I am concerned for you, you idiot. I’d hate to have them—”
The lock on the outside of the compartment doors rattled. In another moment the doors were pulled open. “Okay, you two,” said Waxman, sticking his head into the truck. “Get to your feet and come out of there.”
“Ohhh,” groaned Cole.
“He . . . he’s had some kind of seizure,” said Jenny Keaton. “It’s all your fault, treating him so roughly and tying those smelly ropes so tightly. I’m afraid he—”
“What are you trying to pull?”
“Ohhh,” moaned Cole, rolling weakly from side to side, froth on his lips.
“Can’t you do something?” cried the girl. “He’ll die, he’ll choke or something.”
Waxman rubbed at what little chin he had, thinking. “Okay, I’ll take a look,” he said, pointing his .45 automatic at her. “If it’s a game, I’ll fill you both full of lead.”
“Stop talking and help him!”
Awkwardly Waxman climbed up into the truck. There was no sign of Konrad, no indication of where he was.
“Ohhh,” murmured Cole in a choked voice.
“What kind of spells does he have?” asked Waxman, approaching Cole. His revolver hand hung down at his side.
“What kind?” said Jenny Keaton. “Well, mostly it’s—”
“Laughing spells,” said Cole, swinging his bean-bag blackjack.
The heavy tin can thwacked against the man’s temple. His eyes snapped shut and his legs went out from under him.
Cole, jumping up, used the sap once more.
Waxman dropped over on his
There were several cartons stacked in the rear of the panel truck, most containing canned and packaged foods.
“Lima beans,” Jenny Keaton read off the side of a box, “creamed corn . . . Don’t spot anything that says hand guns or pole axes.”
Prying up the lid of a cardboard carton of canned beans, Cole peered in. “Really is tinned goods.”
“At least we won’t starve.”
“Loan me one of your stockings, Jen.”
“Planning to compete with Konrad?”
“Give me the sock and then stand by for a demonstration of man’s inventive mind at work.”
“I’d love to do my bit, but I haven’t had a pair of nylons—or even rayons—since fall of 1942. These stockings are the painted-on kind.”
“Forgive me for not noticing.” Cole hopped, took off his right shoe. He removed one of his argyle socks. “This plaid, by the way, is the official tartan of the Clan MacMurdie.” After returning his shoe to his bare foot Cole selected a can of beans and stuffed it into his sock. He jiggled the sock until the can was bulging at the toe end. “And thus, using only a few everyday items found around the average household, boys and girls, we’ve made a perfectly useful blackjack. Don’t miss the next issue when Edison Bell will tell you how to use one of your mother’s old—”
“Will that thing work?”
Cole swung the improvised blackjack and made a substantial dent in the side of one of the cartons. “Should work nearly as well on Herr Konrad’s noggin.”
“The only problem now is to get close enough to use it.”
“Wait until . . . Hello! We seem to be turning off the road.”
“Think we’ve arrived?”
“Yes, I’d guess that we’re fast approaching our destination,” said Cole. “Excuse the lack of a more imaginative stratagem, but let’s use the old sick-prisoner dodge.” He hurried over to the place where he’d originally been dumped and lay down on his back with his hands behind him. The homemade blackjack was underneath him, along with the ropes he’d gotten out of. “When they come to fetch us, explain that I had a fit. Might go so far as to suggest I foamed a bit before I fell into my present stupor. That should bring at least one of them within sapping range.”
The truck was bouncing and bumping considerably now. A few more dips and it came to a stop.
“Hands behind you. Look captive. And feign concern for me.”
“I am concerned for you, you idiot. I’d hate to have them—”
The lock on the outside of the compartment doors rattled. In another moment the doors were pulled open. “Okay, you two,” said Waxman, sticking his head into the truck. “Get to your feet and come out of there.”
“Ohhh,” groaned Cole.
“He . . . he’s had some kind of seizure,” said Jenny Keaton. “It’s all your fault, treating him so roughly and tying those smelly ropes so tightly. I’m afraid he—”
“What are you trying to pull?”
“Ohhh,” moaned Cole, rolling weakly from side to side, froth on his lips.
“Can’t you do something?” cried the girl. “He’ll die, he’ll choke or something.”
Waxman rubbed at what little chin he had, thinking. “Okay, I’ll take a look,” he said, pointing his .45 automatic at her. “If it’s a game, I’ll fill you both full of lead.”
“Stop talking and help him!”
Awkwardly Waxman climbed up into the truck. There was no sign of Konrad, no indication of where he was.
“Ohhh,” murmured Cole in a choked voice.
“What kind of spells does he have?” asked Waxman, approaching Cole. His revolver hand hung down at his side.
“What kind?” said Jenny Keaton. “Well, mostly it’s—”
“Laughing spells,” said Cole, swinging his bean-bag blackjack.
The heavy tin can thwacked against the man’s temple. His eyes snapped shut and his legs went out from under him.
Cole, jumping up, used the sap once more.
Waxman dropped over on his
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