Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 98: what you’re looking at

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

“724 guess was pretty cheap, and that she didn’t have no folks living. I bought a couple pieces of music and then sprung this little idea: ‘“‘Say, ki—miss,” I whispered, so the blamed oily floorwalker couldn’t listen in. “You gotta get some roses in them cheeks. Let’s trolley out Westchester way Sunday and absorb a little fresh air.” “Oh, I couldn’t!” she said, twisting the blue ribbons that hung down from her col- lar. I liked that collar because it made her neck look nice. “Why not?” I argued. “I don’t know you.” “Well, this is your rare opportunity.” “Tt don’t care. I can’t go.” “Aw, come on, girlie,” I imveigled. “We'll hop off and heave snowballs at each other, slide down a big icy hill I know, hike back to the trolley station and tank up with a piping hot chocolate. Aw, come on.” She didn’t answer, and I knew I’d won as I most always does. “Can Annie come, too?” she asked, after quite a spell. “ Who’s Annie?” * She’s the girl I stay with.” “Sure. Bring Annie along. What’s the number of your place? I'll be around at two sharp. Bundle up warm.” “T will,” she said, smiling quiet-like. Tf. So we trolleyed out that Sunday to the Westchester woods with the snow lying soft all over ’em and the brown fence rails with their white topping looking like a fudge layer cake spread with marshmallow. We had a good time, romping gay as a school of young porpoises. I didn’t take much stock in this dame Annie, though. She was too flashy, togged out in a slick little turban, seal hug-me-tight and crazy high-heeled pumps. All she did was giggle and stand off, being afraid of getting a snowball in her face and spoiling the work of art. The next Sunday, though, she stayed home, and Poll—that was the kid’s name— was finally persuaded to hike out with me alone. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. It rained like the old Harry coming back, so we packed into a taxi. Of course, I kissed Poll, as I always does bringing girls home, if the fare totals up over a dollar. She didn’t say nothing. When I got back to Ma Ferguson’s that night the fact that Poll didn’t pull no kick made me sort of mad. I thought she was a little different from the rest, but I guess they’re all the same. However, she was a nice kid, so I trotted her out to shows and things real often. One snappy Sunday we took a big walk up the river and sat on a stony little hook jutting out in the water. Things was calm and nice, the Jersey shore looking like a downy white dress I seen a skating girl in the Follies wearing once. Poll and I sat against a log, me holding her hand and her parking her head on my shoulder. There was a little spot of color on each of her cheeks and she looked real pretty, so I kissed her again. “Why do you do that, BillP” she asked me sudden, being the first comment she’d made about it. “Why?” I teased. “ Because you're a cute kid and I like to do it.” ‘““'Yes?” she said slow. ‘ But I don’t want you to do it no more, Bill.” “Why not?” I yelped, sort of mad. “You never made no kick about it before. I guess plenty of fellows has kissed you without you making a kick. Not that that keeps you from being a great little girl.” “No, nobody kissed me. before, Bill.” “Ha, ha,” I snickered. ‘ Tell me an- other.” There was a funny look in them big brown eyes. “I was scared from the first day you—did it that you would think I was just—like all of them,” she said slow, meas- uring every word. “I knew you’d get the idea I let-—other people do it. But I don’t, Bill.” ‘“* No?” I returned, a little bored at Poll’s pulling this serious stuff. “Why do you let me do it then, hon?” ** Because [—love you.” Can you tie that? Well, I kissed her some more and said, “ Sure, sweet, I love you, too. That makes it even, don’t it?”’ COMICLOOKS (C@