Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 25: what you’re looking at

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

QUEEN OF THE NIGHT. Grimpen in his unctuous voice. “ That’s orl you can do wiv her kind.” : “Ah!” Herzog bemoaned. ‘‘ Now you’re diggin’ into the past!” “She ain’t your daughter!” Captain Jar- vy barked between mouthfuls. ‘‘ Don’t tell us that greaser lady’s your daughter!” “Thanks be to God, sir, no!” the inn- keeper affirmed. ‘‘ But you see, gents, it’s like this: Her father left her to me—oh, it’s now a dozen years. He went to jail. That’s where ie went for havin’ a temper!”’ ‘“ That’s ’eredity, I’d say,” Mr. Grimpen remarked knowingly. ‘He left me 2 bit of money—damn me for ever takin’ it!—enough to support a woman, but not a wild cat. Well, we set her to work and my ole lady beat her regu- lar—that is in the old days. Now the minx is gettin’ a bit too tall—’”’ “A bit too ’igh and mighty is my senti- ments!” said Mr. Grimpen. ‘“ Id like her to try and come it on with me, be gad!” ‘“She could have been a drawin’ card in this sort of a place,” the innkeeper said in the same sad tones. ‘‘ That’s what I figured on when I took her. I said to myself, wait till she’s growed up a bit, and I'll have the water front flockin’ around here like bees over my brew! ‘“ When she got to be near growed up we let a docker who loads cotton bales on them barges goin’ to the gulfi—we let him strike up an acquaintance with her one evening. We sort of egged him on, and for that mat- ter me and my ole woman egged the gal on likewise, Well, gents, when them two gets together—God!” Herzog put his hands to his bald head and shook in the horror of his remembrance. ‘But let me tell you: the bargeman was a big, rawboned cuss—as big as that bos’n of yourn over there—and it looked to us that in a pinch he’d orter been able to han- dle himself. But damme if he wasn’t like a big lummox of a bull circlin’ helpless in a corral while a puma-lion clawed him to pieces!”’ “Td like her to try and come it with me, be gad!” the mate repeated. “ Gents,’ Herzog went on, “ after that no one made the mistake of thinkin’ Juana at- tractive. No, sir, not for a whole year. 651 Then a poor, unsuspectin’ bulker comes along. Well, he makes the disagreeable error, gents, of figurin’ since no one else ever touched Juana, it ’d be easy sailin’ be- cause of lack of competition and rivalry! Wow!” Mr. Grimpen, the mate, nodded his head seriously, as if the scene were vivid in his mind. The skipper, having licked his chick- en bones clean, shoved back his chair, belched, and grumbled: “The damned little Mexican punk! I'll twist her brown neck offen her!” “This time,” Herzog affirmed, “ it weren’t like a puma and a bull. No, gents. The man was like a fatted calf! And the gal like—well, I can’t exactly explain what she was like standin’ there in the middle of that floor with a knife! You can’t de- scribe it! It was terrible, wonderful! She was—well, take a look at her now, gents, and see if you get what I mean!” Juana, understanding in her own peculiar way that she was supposed to obey the sum- mons of guests in the dining room, had come to Tom Yarre’s table. The first part of their conversation could not be heard by the skipper, his mate or Herzog, but all three men were vitally in- terested spectators of the scene which en- sued. A tragedy, they felt, was imminent. From the kitchen slouched Herzog’s wife, a large, steamy woman with cheap diamonds and a sky-blue wrapper. Behind her fat shoulder the Jamaican cook thrust his frightened coffee-colored face. The specta- tors understood that a new guest was about to try his luck with Juana, daughter of Miguel! “For why did you call, captain?” the girl asked when Tom Yarre looked up. The boatswain did not immediately re- ply. He studied the girl’s figure, which he observed was lithe, tall, proud. For some peculiar reason he thought that there was only one word which described that ragged figure—elegance. ““ Say, look here!” he said suddenly in- stead of answering her question. ‘“‘ Why do you come when a bos’n calls? Do you obey the commands of any swobheaded lum- mox. who calls you? You aren’t a hash- slinger—that is, not by birth.” COMMICLOoOokKs (C@)