Adventure, August 1917 — page 116: what you’re looking at

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

114 warned him that we and the burros would leave for the Valley prompt at four P.M., and we was waiting for either Measles, or the said four P.M. prompt to arrive—which- ever might arrive first. Down the street comes a streak, accom- panied by a honk! honk/ that was sure some noise. : The streak swings in to the curb, the honk stops tooting, and a big, slab-sided guy, done all up in ruffled linen shirt front and white flannel pants, jumps from the auto— that’s what it was—and grabs Old Wade. I didn’t have any chance to swing on him, ’cause what with the noise of his honk, the surprise of his Barney Oldfield finish, and his immaculate make-up, I was flabber- gasted. Then he hugs Old Wade, and paws him, and biffs, and bangs him, all the time calling him pet names, and he pounds Old Wade on the back till his mouth flies open, and then when Old Wade tries to say some talk, he jabs a big, black cigar in his face, links arms with him and says: ‘“‘Come on, old hoss. Jump in my buzz wagon an’ Ill frisk you over to a drink-stall in some class.”’ But at last Old Wade breaks away. He backs off a ways and kind of sizes the ani- mile up. From patent-leather ties, his eye takes in the whole make-up—shoes, bright green socks, pretty white trousers, belt, be- fluted shirt front, collar and little, dinky, stiff hat. “Well I’m bats,” says Old Wade. “T thought it was a man, and here it’s only Sob.” They gets together and goes to shaking hands again. And then Measles comes up, walking too straight to be very sober, and he says as how it is four p.m. and time we was hitting the trail. And I goes up and breaks in on Old Wade and his pal, and begs their pardon, and says as how as the procession is all ready to move. Old Wade introduces me to the living phonograph and names him as “Sob” How- land. But said Sob Howland don’t ever stop talking; he simply shies me a look, digs into a pocket and hands me some cigars—each one big enough to choke a dog. I lights up one and stood watching the man- let for a spell, kind of pondering as to whether it would be best to kick him, or slap him on the wrist. I kind of compromised by coming to the conclusion that it was only Adventure a dude and not responsible anyhow, and I goes back to where Measles stands as straight as a lamp-post taking in the show. ‘““No chance, Measles,” I says. ‘“There’s no chance whatever to clear the hall and get the audience dispersed until the show’s over and the show will continue till the last record is played over by that human phonograph.”’ “Huh,” says Measles, “watch me!’ I watches him, all right, and it was sure some good watching. He walks right up to where the pair of them was spieling. And walks with that stiff, set, too steady a walk that no sober man can ever pull off. Old Wade sees him coming an’ he just kind of nods at him, but Measles didn’t pay any attention to him. He just walks up to Mr. White Pants, and inserts one of his five by seven hands under his collar and takes a grip on the seat of said pantaloons with his other hand, raises the human Edison patent off his feet, carries him to the edge of the porch and dumps him into the street. Measles takes off his hat and bows to Mister Sob, and says: “T don’t know, stranger, if I’m addressin’ a ex-card sharp er a ex-preacher. If yer is a ex-preacher man, the sisters needs yer at the sewin’ circle; if yer is a ex-card grafter I has ter apolergise fer not kickin’ yer.” In the meantime, Mister Sob had gath- ered hisself together, and when Measles had got through with his speech, he was looking into the business end of as good a thirty-eight gun as I ever saw. I don’t know where he dug it up from, for them pants didn’t seem capable of concealing such a gun; but there it was, and there wasn’t a quiver to the hand that was back efit... .- “Up hands, Mister But-in-sky, ’’says Sob, ‘“‘and up hands muy pronto, if yer ever in- tends to git ’em up.” Now Measles don’t belong in the real fool class, and the hole in the business end of a thirty-eight is acceptable to him as good argument. So his hands go skyward with- out a second invite. And Mister Sob just smiled and told Measles what he thought about him and all of his kin-folks, an’ finally marched him ahead of him up street to a store where he invited him, with the gun argument still in force, to purchase a new dude outfit for him. And when Measles had paid the bill, he escorted him to the door, kicked him and cComiclsoo C© S|