Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 23: what you’re looking at

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

QUEEN OF THE NIGHT. been some tendon or nerve of a human being—of Tom Yarre himself. The hand thrilled him—it was beautiful. He looked up, his eye following the bare moist arm of the girl to her shoulder where a sleeve of her blouse was torn, displaying the skin. Copper-colored skin was ex- quisite in the world of the forecastle. The blouse was not. It was of red stuff, dingy and old. The skin gleaming in the tear at the girl’s shoulder and throat invited the mariner to look up. She was tall. Her face seemed far above him, aloof, dejected, sullen, proud. The boatswain was young, and cared more for a girl’s eyes than for her costume. These eyes, indeed, puzzled him greatly. They were large, dry, deep brown, as if smoldering from a vivid flame. There was a strange beauty about her which was not to be discovered by the inhabitants of the Sundown Café—the seamen, the Por- tuguese, Spanish, South American, the scruffers, the stevedores, the bargemen. Tom Yarre discovered it. She was like a Spanish infanta abducted by gypsies and transformed into a drudge. She was Cin- derella. A loud banging of Captain Jarvy’s fist upon the table on the other side of the room summoned Juana away from the boatswain. ‘“‘ Look here, woman,” the skipper shout- ed, “I want them tarts of mine cooked like the way they do in Peru. Put the chile and meat on top and then furl the ole tart around it; clew it up with a bit of twine, and bake it with the meat stowed away in the bunt—” “Santa Maria, what language is it you spik!’? Juana cried desperately. Mr. Grimpen interpreted his master’s order in a soft, wheedling voice: “ The capting wants a torta rolled ‘around some meat, well done. ‘That’s all, me gel. Now, abaht your business!” “Senor Skipper don’t want a tart; he wants a tamale,” Juana cried disgustedly. It was, of course, inevitable that the inn- keeper should stand at the door with his ear cocked for every word spoken in the dining room. Having ordered the tortas cooked to the skipper’s order, he again sent Juana into the “ pirates’ den.” 649 “Humor him, woman!” Herzog begged. “Whatever he wants, let him have it—and more. There’s no telling what disasters will come upon the house if we displease this terrible man!” The mate was already eagerly devouring his chile and beans. And Tom Yarre, on the other side of the room, had set upon his tamale with a merciless appetite. The skipper alone was unserved, goaded by hun- ger, tapping the floor with his boot and letting fly a kick at. a pigeon which was picking at the sawdust under the table. Juana set his dish before him. He picked it up, looked at it, smelled it, making a snorting noise with his nose. “ What the hell is this?” “Damn if I know, senor,’ was Juana’s retort. “T ordered tortas—and you bring me something in a husk! Am I a pig? Do you feed husks to a man who has eaten this dish in every port from Suez to ’Frisco? God! Woman, what is this cesspool of Mexicans and cockroaches that invites sea- men to eat a table d’hote!” “ Before God, I am not Mexican!” the girl cried. ‘‘I am Spanish. I am Castil- ian! lam Juana, the daughter of Miguel.” This quarrel brought the innkeeper, pale- faced and trembling, to the door—as well as the cook and the innkeeper’s wife. The skipper’s hunger had conquered his taste, and he dug into the spicy dish. The odor of thyme and onion and tabasco made his mouth water despite himself. But he had scarcely filled his fork when a hand darted across the table—that slender olive- colored hand which Tom Yarre had thought so beautiful when it held a knife. The dish was whisked away, and the skipper, his eyes bulging, his breath bated, his mouth open, saw the plate and its contents hurled through the open door. Juana turned her back upon him and walked regally into her kitchen. The skipper regained his breath and brayed out oaths that the parrot of the Orinoco could never have memorized. ‘“‘T'll break every bone in her body, the damned rig! I'll flense her hide for her! I'll keethaul the little cholo minx!” He jumped to his feet, tipping the table COMMICLOOOKS (C@