Ainslee's Magazine, February 1913 — page 124: what you’re looking at

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

114 “T’m on, Aunt Tabby,” agreed the young man. ° The other nodded ponderously. “You've got sense, Horace,” she ob- served. “Now, I’m going to tell you a few things, and then you can hang up your hat and stay as long as you like. It’ll* cost you six dollars a week, and you'll git something to eat that won't poison you.’ “You can’t begin on me too soon, Aunt Tabby,” returned Horace thank- fully. “I’m Kitty's stepaunt,” rolled out Miss Brown. “Her mother married my brother when Kitty was twelve. She’s twenty-two now. He wasn’t like me, my brother. Just an ordinary man. I’m a freak. I’m forty-five years old, six foot two inches tall, weigh three hundred and twenty pounds, and can lick any man in town.” “I'd gamble on it,” said Horace. “I’m a freak,” repeated Miss Brown, with evident gusto, “and my _ brother was a fool. Our father left us five thousand dollars apiece. Bub married Kitty’s mother, lost his money, and died. I didn’t marry—you can grin if you want to—and I invested my money in the oilcloth mills down by the rail- road. To-day I’m the richest single woman in the county, and I come pretty near to running things around here to suit myself.” “Put me down for another bet on that,” requested Horace. The giantess looked at him approv- ingly. “Tm glad you’re here,” she pealed forth. “Mebbe you can prod up Ar- thur Lomas some. He needs it. Did Kitty tell you about him? No, [ guess not. Girls don’t talk about their fellers to other fellers.” “She’s engaged to him?” ace quickly. “No; that’s the trouble. He's _a preacher. His salary is six hundred a year. That’s eleven dollars and fifty- three cents a week. Kitty makes twenty dollars a week in a State Street broker’s office. How’s a man to ask a girl to marry him when he’s making only half what she makes? And how’s any girl asked Hor- AINSLEE’S outside a lunatic asylum to be expected to marry a man whose pay ain’t but little more’n enough to keep a dog from starving?” With this question, the lady. demand- ing an answer, leveled a finger the size of a Colt’s forty-five at the young man facing her. Horace threw up both hands. “Don’t shoot!” he begged. “I give it up.” “You ain’t going to give it up,” threatened the other. “You’re going to help me figger it out. Arthur’s a good boy, only he’s got started wrong. There ain't no money in preaching, and never will be; and as for the reward here- after he’s counting on, I say a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” Horace was irreligious enough to ac- quiesce in this, and Aunt Tabby pur- sued her theme: “Arthur’s got the brains to git out and make a decent living instead of wasting his time trying to save the souls of the tough old pirates that live around here. They don’t want to be saved; if they did, they’d pay living wages to the chap who tackled the job. When a man has got a bad tooth he goes to the dentist, and pays him a good price to fix it up; but when he’s got a bad heart he expects the preacher to tag around after him and beg him for the privilege of working on it for noth- ing. Bah!” Miss Brown boomed out her disgust with the report of a ten-pounder. Hor- ace imagined he could feel the wind of the shot as it hurtled by. “How can I help?” he inquired cu- riously. “I’m game for almost any old thing.” “Git after Arthur. Talk to him. Tell him he’s a fool. I’ve done it till I’m sick of it. Why, he’s got up a pat- ent—a thing for sealing letters by elec- tricity. The working model’s down to New York, in somebody’s office, being tried out, they claim; but it’s been there six months now, and he can’t draw no satisfaction out of them people. He ought to git a pile of money for it, and cut loose from this preaching business. But there it sticks, and here he sticks, COWMUC OOO) KK (C@)