The Argosy, March 27, 1920 — page 112: what you’re looking at

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

EE el 4 hy Gordon Mac Creagh COMPLETE IN THIS ISSUE, Le HE sharp trill of the telephone startled Howard Selfridge out of his vacuous lethargy. For long minutes he had gazed emptily, rather blearily, into nothing- ness. At intervals his face was screwed up with pain and he pressed his two hands against his head to still the hammering in his temples. Soft white hands they were, and they trembled dissipatedly. The bell broke in on one of these periods of groan- ing torpor, and Selfridge’s eyes opened again and he looked round at each of the luxurious furnishings of his room in turn with an éxpression of peevish bitterness on his face, It might have been a fine face under other circumstances, The eyes were wide apart and intelligent—in spite of their pres- ent bleariness. The nose was finely chis- eled. The lips were full and firm; and the whole showed the possibility of an imagina- tion which might have accomplished things. But it was a soft face and bloodless, and the lines which seamed it were lines of dis- sipation and disillusionment and of weary cynicism, Again the bell reminded him. He grum- bled discontent, and without rising from his deep chair he reached out a shaky hand to a decanter on the table beside him to pour himself a bracer for the necessary energy to answer it. He turned the de- canter upside down over a tumbler, and for long seconds he watched the last amber drops trickle from the thin neck with a twisted smile of satirical introspection. Then suddenly he gripped the bottle in a spasm of passion as a convulsion of rage flushed his pale face. He leaped to his feet and crashed the costly glass into the empty fireplace. “Damn Dickie anyhow!” he swore vi- ciously. “I knew he was a fool! Sure tip, hell! Any stock that he boosted was bound to slump! Curse it, I’d never have in- vested, only Margie giggled and said I was no sport; and I was pickled to the gills,” Once again the bell jarred imperiously on his jangled nerves. This time he stag- gered painfully to the instrument and lis- tened at the receiver. An appreciable time elapsed before he seemed to understand the message. The operator had to repeat, Then he groaned. “Oh, thunder! Tell her I’m not in,” There followed an awkward pause. Then he distinguished the cautious buzzing of the wire—or was it his head: “ Standin’ right heah, suh; she done heard me talkin’ to you, suh.” Selfridge hung over the instrument help- lessly. All he could think of was: “Oh, Lord! Tell her that—oh, hell!” “Then the voice again: 262 CommichoOolks. con