Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 53: what you’re looking at

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

THE MAN WITHOUT HANDS. “ Freddy?” “Yes, what is it?” ‘Did you ever hear of a racing man by the name of Peter J. Pomeroy?” He asked this nonchalantly, as though it was nothing to him; just something he was idly curious about. He gazed out of the window again at the passing show, pointedly careless about Freddy’s reply. ‘““Old Pete Pomeroy? You bet I did,” replied Freddy. “ One of the finest. Why do you ask, Val, ole kid?” ‘Oh, no particular reason, What kind was he?” “ Died more than a year ago, I think— saw something about his bally demise in the papers. Awf’ly decent sort, Val—one of those old Southern gentlemen. Funny thing about him—used to breed and race, both. Sort of eccentric. Afraid of banks, or something like that; say, that bird used to carry as much as a hundred thousand dollars around with him, sometimes. I've seen that much on him more than once. Had all kinds of money, and figured it was just as good to him as to a bank—and not half so much of a temptation, I guess. Anyway, everybody knew he never put his money in a bank—funny, he never was held up. “Queer duck. Had his breeding farm somewhere down in Virginia—near Old Point Comfort, y’know—I think it was a little on the other side of Hampton; tre- mendous estate, and they say he had a sort of a private race track on his estate, where he used to work them out. Hed f daughter, too, I think. JI saw her once, five—six years ago—just out of boarding school.” Val sat up again. ‘““His daughter?” he repeated. The other nodded lazily. “ Yeh. Funny lookin’ little tike, too. Skinny legged, with freckles and ugly red hair— I say, what’s up?” he asked in alarm. Val had shut up his check book and put it in his pocket. “Nothing,” he said shortly. ‘“ Only you don’t get a nickel, that’s all.” Ugly red hair, indeed! Freckles and skinny legs! The poor, misguided simp! Had the nerve to ask him for money, too. Why— Freddy. 43 “Oh, I say, Val, you know you—” He broke off with a whistle, and a grin spread its way across his pleasant, weak face, “So that’s it,’ he said, enlightened. “The filly, eh? Well, you know, Val, she was only a kid when I saw her,” he said ingratiatingly. ‘“‘ You know, that kind usually grow up into awf’ly fine looking girls. In fact, come to think of it, this girl’s eyes were great—nicest I ever saw— white star on her forehead and—er, I mean —nice skin, and the freckles were really very fetching, if you know what I mean. She was—” Val slapped him on the back, laughing. “Freddy, you old hypocrite, you win! Only the next time you say a girl has red hair think it over carefully before you open that fool mouth of yours. That nearly cost you five hundred dollars, and cheap at the price, too, Now, this Jessica horse—how about placing a little bet on her for me, too?” CHAPTER X. A THREAT? HE inquiry of the medical examiner the next morning at ten, was the usual humdrum bit of business. Both Val and Sam Peters received rather sharp ques- tioning concerning the young woman in the case—the girl who had sold the books which were subsequently stelen. It appeared that the entixe Case hinged on the robbery of the books—those which had disappeared from Val’s apartment as well as those which had cost poor Mat Masterson his life. Sam Peters, for his part, was legitimately hazy about the appearance of the girl. She had meant nothing to him—just another seller of books. They came into the store all the time—sometimes twenty or thirty a day, men and women. He was not accus- tomed to paying much attention to them. He gave what description he could, but it was vague and hazy. But when it came to a hazy description, Val was the person who seemed to be able to deliver the goods. There have been hazy descriptions of women before now, but never has Val’s description been surpassed for in- Eomichooks (S@)