The Man of Last Resort; Or, The Clients of Randolph Mason

by Melville Davisson Post

“As I have said, it was very dark, and the roar of the waters was something frightful, but we were quite familiar with the bridge, and, becoming accustomed to the darkness, presently came to see sufficiently for our purposes.

“Hirst went directly to the span of the bridge nearest the east shore, and, removing his coat and vest, placed them across one of the girders. Then he began to undo the bundle in order to put on the miner's clothing which he had brought with him.

“This was my opportunity, and I suggested that we first walk to the other side in order to make sure that the bridge was entirely clear. He immediately put down the bundle and came up to me. I do not now know whether there was in his mind any trace of suspicion, but I do know that at this suggestion the man seized my arm and tried to look into my face, and I am certain that had it been light he would have discovered the treachery which I was contemplating. But it was dark, and the man said nothing except to curse the night. He was exceedingly profane, this Hirst, and as we walked the length of the bridge, he holding my arm and damning the night in half whispers, I somehow felt that this man appreciated in a vague way the doom that was impending. But I presume that this was simply an impression arising from the intense strain under which I was laboring.

“As we were about to return, I pointed to the white surf, breaking on the bowlders below. The man, still holding my arm, stopped, leaned over the low railing, and peered down into the water. This was the position into which I had hoped to trap him, and, wrenching my arm loose suddenly, I struck him heavily between the shoulders. The man plunged forward over the railing, clutching wildly at the air, but he uttered no cry. and his body whirled downward into the blackness below.

“I clung to the railing and strove to see where the body would strike, but it was folly. The bridge was high above the rough stream, and I heard only the dull splash that told of his death.”

The eyes of the coal operator seemed to stretch at the corners, and a dull gray spread over his face.

“I should like to be rid of that scene,” he continued after a moment. “It is frightfully vivid. Every detail of it seems to have been photographed on my brain, and it runs before me like the pictures in a vitascope. Men sometimes forget such things, it is said, but, in the name of Heaven, how? Why, I can see him any moment in the dark. I can see his strained white face mad with horror, I can see his clutching hands, I can feel in my own throat just how the terror of death choked in his, and I know, I know——”

Randolph Mason struck his clenched fist heavily on the table. “Sir,” he said sharply, “you will kindly omit this drivel. Give me the facts just as they occurred. You may reserve your melodrama for the purposes of a copyright.”

Gilmore started and threw up his head as though some one had suddenly dashed ice-water in his face. He put his hand up to his forehead and pressed his fingers hard against the skin; then he straightened in his chair and seemed to gain his self-control.

“Well,” he went on, “I went back to the east side of the bridge, threw the bundle over into the river, slipped through to the Chesapeake and Ohio on one of the night freights, and by noon of the same day I was in Philadelphia.