Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

PRIDE AND POLL. And here they was playing the same tune eight year later in little old Noo Yawk. Well, I picked out a couple hanks from the general débris and begin to shove my way out when they struck up the same piece again, not so rough as the last time, and a girl’s voice started singing. I couldn’t see the girl, but she sounded like a calm, cool brook bubbling over the pebbles and it made me almost wish I'd been good enough to get to Heaven, for I’d bet my last peso she’d be in the front row of the Angel Chorus. Well, it was getting late and I knew Ma Ferguson’s hash would be dripping icicles by the time I got back to the boarding house, but still—something made me -wish I could see the face that was spouting those tinny old pieces and making them sound like paradise. So I jammed threugh the bargain-delvers and finally emerged at the back of the store. And there she was. Just a kid, no more than eighteen, I guess, and as pale as the chicken soup Ma Ferguson ladles out to us Sundays. But she was pretty, with the kind of prettiness that doesn’t bust on you all of a flash, but that comes gradual, the more you stare at her. She stopped singing and I leaned over the piano and said, “ Hello, kid!” She looked up at me with them big deer- brown eyes and I had an idea I shouldn’t have called her “ kid.” “‘ What’s the name of the piece you was singing?” I asked, taking my elbow off the piano and standing up straight. “ Bombay Blues,” she returned polite. “Tt’s kinda pretty,” I remarked. She turned her back to fish out a sheet of music for a woozy-looking guy with a ereen shirt, and I saw a couple little brown curls at the back of her neck that was too blamed cute. “Say, do you know you're all right?” I said when she looked around again. Her eyes got very big and a little sad, and she didn’t answer. “T heard that same tune out in Sumatra eight years ago,” I begin. “ New York is a slow burg when it comes to picking up the jazz stuff.” 723 “Yes?” she said, and commenced to hunt for anether sheet of music. “Don’t see why they call the blamed thing ‘ Bombay Blues’ when it come from Sumatra,” I observed, thinking this girl was a whizz of a hard one to get on with. It’s pretty rare the dames turn me down and I ain’t used to it. “Do you want to buy a copy?” she “ Maybe—if you sing it again and I like ".” “You heard me sing it once.” “Sure, I heard you. It sounded like Heav—it sounded pretty good.” A tall, sour-looking gink that I had a hunch was the floorwalker come strolling in our direction and the kid sat down at the piano again. So I started to move off. said. She didn’t answer, but I thought I saw 4 glimmer of a smile on her mouth. “ Nice child,” I decided. That night I skipped out to a little poker game with the boys, assembling some forty bucks, and next day I raked down twenty commish on cigarette cases, so I was feeling pretty comfortable, thank you. Ma Ferguson dished up a real lemon meringue pie that evening, and up in my room after supper I got out the hankies I’d bought for her Christmas and said to my- self, ‘‘ Bill Geers, you old piker! The idea of wishing a couple cheap cotton mooswars on your good looking landlady! You'd bet- ter hike yourself right back and change 7em.”’ So I L’d down to the store and bought a dozen real lace ones. Then I started to walk out when I got to thinking that maybe Ma Ferguson’s young tike what’s taking piano lessons might like some of them new jazz pieces. I ambled over to the music department. The kid was there again. ** Hello,” I said careless. “ Hello,” she come back at me, with a smile. Seeing she was willing to be friendly I parked a while and we talked real chummy. T found out she was staying with another jane in a room on the top floor of a joint I “So long,” I Gomichdooks (C@)