Life — December 4, 1913 — page 36: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

976 Apctet LIFE sex 444 mtn suit, and tears sprang in them. The book slipped to the floor. “Can't keep you in furs and feathers just yet .” He attempted to laugh, foreseeing failure. Letty moved to Emerson's side, as if secking resolution. “Joe,” she murmured, “we're fools. I’m not going to make a slave of you. I'll stick to the stage.” “Sensible girl!” applauded Emerson. “Honest, Letty, I did my best,” said Joe. She turned her back to him abruptly: “You're right,” his tone altered, “I couldn't produce the goods. So it’s good-bye, is it?” He caught up his hat and advanced on Emerson. “Well, you've broken it up,” he growled, “and I’m sick of seeing you. Guess I need a change. I'm tired of the simple life.” He shoved past his astonished brother and ran down the stair. The front door, slamming, shook the house. Emerson, a little less confident, drew a check from his wallet and extended it to Letty. Late that afternoon the legless man who takes your charity with shamed reluctance was struggling away from his post on Twelfth Street. A shabby, vigorous passer-by halted before his outstretched cap and averted head. His hand went readily into his trousers pocket, but stopped there. The puzzled cripple, looking up, saw blue-ringed eyes and a greyish face. “Lost your legs, you poor devil?” said the passerby in an unexpectedly mocking manner. “I've only lost my wife, and I’m on my way to celebrate. Got a wife?” “No.” The beggar glanced bitterly at his mutilated body. “Then you don’t need money.” moved on without giving alms. His next stop was before a corner saloon. The most athletic muscles tire in time. Riggs gazed fondly at the saloon door. Closed, of course. But the side door would be open. He found it. “Where's your bride?” asked a startling voice. “Has domesticity palled?” Riggs set down the whiskey bottle with a black look. The reporter was beside him, leering over the rim of a glass, in a mood too sunny to be dis- turbed by any looks. “Are you on your wedding tour?” “Yes.” Riggs gave a hollow laugh. “Alone. I hadn't the price, and she shook me. However, I’m done mourn- ing for to-day. I’m going to pry the lid off as far as nineteen dollars and seventy-five cents will jack it up.” He lifted the bottle again. “These flossy little girls!” murmured the drowsy re- porter, and shook his head regretfully. “Isn't it about time to say, ‘I will arise and go to my father?'” “Not by a damn sight,” exploded Riggs. “Believe me,” the reporter consoled him languidly, “wives are a horrid bore. Ask anyone you know.” And returned to his glass. Riggs tasted the whiskey and set it down. “Wood-alcohol and fusel-oil?” he commented, leaning heavily against the bar. The singular visitor “Aw, what’s bitin’ you?” frowned the belligerent bar- tender, “Look at the name on the bottle.” But the reporter, looking at Riggs instead, saw his color- less face break into beads of perspiration, saw his hand clench on the rail, and expertly slipped a seat under him to catch the sagging weight. “Whiskey on an empty stomach,” he diagnosed the case. “You've been cutting it too fine,” he warned, when Riggs, smiling with embarrassment, began to wipe the ice water out of his own hair and eyes. “Had any dinner?” “Yep. Day before yesterday,” apologized Riggs with agrin. “I forgot about eating to-day.” Mollified, the bartender exhumed a thermos bottle. “No poison in mine,” he waved a derogatory hand at the rows of potable spirits, poured out some hot soup, and held it to the patient's lips. “Home's the place for you, my boy,” advised the re- porter. And Riggs agreed. At the door he paused to take the journalistic hand in a friendly grasp. “You haven't told me your name,” he suggested. “T used to think I was Shakespeare,” answered the con- templative reporter. “Now I’ve an idea I'm E. P. Roe, or something about that size.” The door swung at Riggs’s heels. back to his tumbler. Far up the street, Riggs overtook a toiling figure. It was the cripple crawling along on miserable stumps. He turned, hearing steps, flushed, and hastily drew back the cap he had extended. Riggs produced his slender roll of bills. “You win, friend. I've lost the gift of carousing,” he announced, and stuffed the money into the lame man’s half-closed fist. As he opened the door of his room, a late ray of sun- shine struck through to the darkening hall. Letty sat by the window sewing. She sprang up. Neat balls of stockings fell from her lap and rolled. With two steps he crossed the room and took her in his arms. She flung herself to mect his embrace. “Would you rather have money, Joe?” she asked Piteously, her head buried deep in his shoulder. He tried to allay her suspicions. “You weren't here to meet me,” she said. “That's a good deal of a frost, you know, for a long-lost wife to encounter, and you didn’t . . . kiss me, and your brother’d complained of your hard luck, and you looked so wretched, and you'd saved so much I knew you'd done without everything—I thought you didn’t want me, Joe, and were too polite to say so.” “T walked all night to get here,” he defended himself, his face tight against her’s, “I was played out. And Emmy claimed you were sick of me. Then your clothes sort of got me—” “Tt was for a wedding dress,” faltered Letty. why I was extravagant.” The reporter went “That's