The Horror Megapack_ 25 Classic and Modern Horror Stories ( PDFDrive )

ears and on the blade of a long, murderous dirk-knife.
“Ah, Meestair,” he greeted, advancing a step, “I t’eenk you come for you gal,
an’ wait here for you. You not make any noise w’ile we tie you opp, or—” he
raised the dirk and drew it horizontally through the air some six inches before his
throat in a gesture more expressive than agreeable. “You stan’ steel w’ile we tie
you, no?” he concluded.
“After you get tied opp all nice an’ tight, maybe we decide w’at we do
afterwards. Maybe we leave you ’ere; maybe we put you out your suffering
queek, lak dees—” again the knife-blade performed the murderous gesture.
“Maybe we let you ’ave some fon w’ile we enjoy ourself wiz you gal. She ver’
prett’ gal, Meestair, bot I t’eenk she tak some leetle beating before she gentle
enoff for us.”
As he concluded, he drew up immediately before Professor Forrester and
reached forward a noosed rope. “You put you ’and in heem now, an’ not mak no
foss,” he advised, “or—”
Professor Forrester dropped both hands into his dinner coat pockets and faced
the burly scoundrel defiantly. “Stand out of my way!” he commanded sharply.
“Ha-ha, ho!” the other burst into a laugh, towering over the diminutive
Forrester like a turkey-cock above a bantam. “You mak foss, eh? I show you
dam’ queek who’s boss ’round ’ere—
“Devla!” the exclamation was a scream as he staggered back, pawing furiously
at his eyes.
Professor Forrester had hurled a handful of the powdered, dry tobacco fairly
into the man’s face as he bent forward to loop the rope about his arms.
The gypsy’s knife fell clattering to the stone floor as the fiery powder stung his
eyes almost past endurance, and Professor Forrester placed one foot upon it,
drawing it toward him. Next instant, before his disabled antagonist had time to
lower his hands from his blinded eyes, the Professor’s right heel landed in the pit
of his stomach with devastating force, doubling him forward like a closing jackknife.
As the man’s head came level with his waist, Forrester lashed out with his
fist, putting every ounce of his strength, weight and anger behind the blow. Fist
and jaw collided with a sharp, smacking impact, the gypsy dropped limply to the
floor and lay there, twitching spasmodically, but showing no other sign of life.
“Mahrimé!” with a lithe bound the younger man was up from his pallet, his
knife flashing wickedly.
He was a muscular young man, and was obviously anxious to use his weapon.
There was no time to temporize, no chance to achieve victory by some such trick