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The day book. (Chicago, Ill.) 1911-1917, April 20, 1915, NOON EDITION, Image 18

Image and text provided by University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library, Urbana, IL

Persistent link: http://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn83045487/1915-04-20/ed-1/seq-18/

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THE YELLOW DOG
By John Robbins
Bloomfield had planned the rob
bery in every detail forweeks before,
but he had never contemplated mur
der. That had been a grim accident.
Having got the safe open, he had
raised his head to find old Barrett
standing in the doorway, holding a
level revolver at him.
"Hands up!" said the old man,
smiling grimly.
Bloomfield flung up his hands, and,
as the old man's revolver wavered in
the tired hand, leaped. He had timed
himself to a nicety, for the bullet
whizzed past his ear, and in an in
stant he had seized the weapon and
brought it down on old Barrett's head
with stunning force
He knew Barrett was dead. He
knelt over the body and felt the heart
cease to beat, raised the wrist and
felt the pulse throb into silence. He
stood up and in a moment the full
realization of his fate flashed through
his brain. He saw the eelctric chair,
the bonds, the switches.
With a shudder of revulsion Bloom
field stepped back, closed the safe,
and, with his plunder in his pocket,
planned his new movements in the
light of this development He had in
tended to lie low in the city now he
saw that he must make for a distant
town. In the metropolis the hunt
would not let up for a couple of years.
In Atlanta, Baltimore, Cleveland
He settled on Atlanta. The south
ern newspapers did not make such a
feature of New York news. He could
catch a train before the body was
discovered, leave at a station other
than that for which he had bought a
ticket, take a branch line. He began
to grow encouraged. He would not
look at the body upon the floor. A
dog was howling in a room near at
hand. It must be old Barrett's dog,
the miser's. The eerie sound made
Bloomfield's blood run cold.
He made his way out by the win
dow to the street Nobody was stir
ring. With his $50,000 in his pocket
he strode on gayly. His spirits were
high. Nobody had seen him come or
go. The dog was still howling, how
ever. The howling sounded nearer.
Bloomfield glanced around to see the
creature at his heels. It was a white
and yellow bloodhound and it sniffed
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No Nearer, No Further Away, Always
Whining Softly.
at his trail, whining, not very loud,
but dismally and mournfully.
Bloomfield stopped and called to it
He snapped his fingers, but the crea
ture 'leaped away with a terrified
moan. When Bloomfield resumed his
pacing the dog followed him, no near
er, no further away, always whining
softly. It was a terrific, indictment,
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