Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 101: what you’re looking at

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

PRIDE AND POLL. I took Poll home, though, her never yap- ping once till we got to the front steps. Then she turned around and said: “ Bill,” from the bottom of the big fur choker she had on. But I wasn’t to be soothed that easy. “ Poll,” I come back, severe, “ what made you carry on that way with Sam? I’m ashamed of you, acting so.” Her eyes was big and brown. I never seen ‘em so big since the day she said she loved me up by the river. “ You acted—that way with Annie, too,” she returned, chokey. “ Ye-ah, but you started first with Sam,” I said, hot-tongued. “ What’s the idea?” “TI don’t know,” she whispered, and I could see, even in the watery light from the hall, that she was near crying. “I—we had planned such a nice little time all By ourselves—you bringing somebody else— not going to our own little place where we— we said we would get married some Guy— inviting them other two on—on the gtk of May.” She was sure enough crying now. But I didn’t get the drift. ‘“* Gosh, and you made @ Hottentot out of yourself just for that! Some women are the craziest—- What do you suppose Sam thinks of you?” ‘“‘ He—he seemed to like me pretty well.” “Ye-ah, he did, did he? Just because he pranced around with you like a wild galoot and hee-hawed at some of the silly stuff you pulled ain’t no reason he liked you,” I yelped, getting madder and madder, as I had a right to be. “‘ What do you sup- pose he’s saying of me now? Like as not laughing at the monkey I’ve made out of myself tumbling for a jazzy jane like you. And after me soaping him about what a nice sweet little kid you was. ‘So that’s the kind of a Sheba Bill has picked for the missus,’ he’s saying.” “ All right, then. If he don’t like it you can tell him I’m not going to be your missus.” “T will,” I snapped back. We stood there a minute not saying noth- ing. Then Poll made a funny little noise in her throat and snuggled her head down on my shoulder. “ Bill! Bill!” she cried, and something else I couldn’t hear. “ Are you sorry, hon, for cutting up like that?” I asked, willing to make up and even patting her hair. “ Are you sorry; too?” she whispered soft. “T asked you,” I said, getting riled up again. “ You started it first.” “But you made me do it,’”’ she argued, lifting her head off my shoulder and stand- ing back. ce How?” “Inviting them other two.” ““ Well, I had to be decent to Sam, didn’t I? Going back West in the morning and all.” “Yes, but it’s just—” and she stopped. “Ye-ah, just because you wanted to make a fool of me in front of Sam,” I said. “Ym sorry, Bill. I won’t make no fool of you again.” “Tl say not,” I told her. She slipped something into my fist. It was the little pearl ring I give her. ‘‘ Good- by,” she said. “All right, then!” I snapped, cold as a steam-heated flat, and walked off. Next morning I almost called her up, but a man’s got to have a little pride, and if she wanted to make up she knew my number. That afternoon I skipped West with Sam, IV. A COUPLE months limped on, while I bumped around, picking up a little cein and lots of experience. But I couldn’t get over thinking about Poll. Every once in so often I started to write, but then, I thought, like as not she’s married by now. Once or twice, though, the idea popped up that maybe she was sick or out of work or something, and I come near hiking it back—but didn’t. Every night, even when I was stewed as an oyster, I thought of them big brown eyes and the cute way she used to muss up my hair. And so the thing went—my mind fattening on the idea I hadn’t lowered my blamed pride, and my heart starving for the loving I’d lost. Then, one day in Des Moines, I blew into a little cigar store where a man asked me did I want to listen in on his radio concert, all the way from Newark. “Sure,” I said, hankering for a sound from home. Gomicbdooks 727 (C@ wa 4 - ; & *, ro ij : as " : we ‘, vi \ f PAN, cy N) . RANAAIE RE Lot { ivy