The interior journal. [volume] (Stanford, Ky.) 1912-1984, 1916-03-14
The Emissary In Oak.

The EmISSary In OAK.
Midway between that portion of New
York harbor, known as the Upper bay,
and the open reaches of the sea that
wash up the sands of Manhattan
beach, lies a district that might be fit.
tingly denominated as No Mans land.
One of the least savory habita-
tions adjoining that fringe of city's
fiotsam was the ruinous boathouse of
certain Oyster Joe.
And Oyster Joe, the river pirate,
looked the part. The unsteadiness of
his still muscular limbs, the looseness
of his swollen lips, the unkemptness
of his entire surroundings, all united
to proclaim him lover of the cup that
can cheer and at the same time inebri-
ate. This fact, indeed, was further
evidenced by the earnestness with
which Oyster Joe, himself making his
way into the sail loft, lifted a worn
tarpaulin aside and studied row Of
cognac casks.
So intent was his study of this
wealth of joy to be that he saw and
heard nothing Of a slender-bodied
stranger who quietly approached his
abode, entered it, and stared studious-
ly about. What made this intruder
even more mysterious was the fact
that across the upper part of his face
he wore a narrow band of yellow cloth.
The movements of this mysterious
stranger were marked by celebrity.
When his investigations, in fact, were
suddenly interrupted by sound which
grew louder along the narrow road
winding inland through the salty
marshes, he crept to the door, peered
out and prepared himself for a prom
Used intruder. For approaching Oys-
ter Joe's boathouse he could plainly
make out two-horse wagon driven by
a slattern-shouldered and white-beard-
ed man of about sixty.
The masked intruder crept back
through the boathouse, entered the
sail loft and stealthily approached the
still musing figure of Oyster Joe. In
moment he had the old pirate bound
and gagged.
Then, hearing the wagon wheels al
most at the door, the stranger dragged
his inert captive to nearby beam,
dashed him to it and over him threw
the tarpaulin from the cognac casks.
Slipping back to the outer rooms
the masked stranger drew his revolver
and stood close in beside the shadow
Of the door, calmly waiting for the
man who had already alighted from
the wagon.
From the mouth behind the white
whiskers came squeak, like the
squeak of a rat behind a wainscoting,
as the strangers revolver was thrust
Unexpectedly into his startled old face.
Before he could quite recover from
that initial shock of surprise a strand
of rope was around his wrists and he
was being backed unceremoniously
away into the sail loft.
There, gagged and triced to a beam,
he kept company with his rolling eyed
and equally mystified confrere, Oys-
ter Joe. There he sat blinking about
him as the masked stranger briskly
rolled two of the cognac casks out to
the waiting wagon, loaded them on
the platform and as briskly drove
away, taking with him both the time
worn hat and the bottle-green overcoat
of the original driver of that wagon.
But before debouching from the
open marshlands into the buster out
skirts of South Brooklyn the audacious
abductor of cognac had converted
himself into somewhat startling fac
smile of the earlier owner and driver
of the wagon.
He directed his course towards that
subterranean haven of illicit beverages
known as the Owls Nest, where
Margory Golden was listlessly MAX
ing preparations for the coming meal.
She started suddenly as she stopped
over the fire smoldering in the
blackened fireplace. For from a
crevice in the wall, a crevice no big
ger than mans hand, a piece of NOR
tar Enthusiastically few out and struck
her on the arm. She was still staring
incredulously into this crevice when
f1utter of white passed her eyes and
a small square of paper fell at her feet
close to the edge of the Goals. She un-
folded the missive and read:
"A cask of cognac is coming. If Le-
gar and his men drink from it they
should be drugged asleep inside of ten
minutes. Press spring concealed on
top Of cask and follow directions there.
Don't give up. And if you understand
this, tap twice with the fire tongs."
Below these words was the sign of
the Laughing Mask.
So fortifying was this knowledge in
fact, that when Casavanti and Legar
himself entered the gloomily-lighted
room, Margory Golden no longer
cringed at the sound of their voices.
Casavanti, walking over to her,
turned her face to the light He peered
at it hungrily, from half-closed eyes.
"Legar," he called out to that
worthy, who had remained at the door
to warn his stickup to admit nobody
but immediate members of their band,
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