Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

TWO WEEKS’ NOTICE. 67 “ Albee was in this morning, and agreed to buy us out at our own figure,’ Caspar answered. ‘‘I guess now he knows the town can’t support two hardware stores! And maybe I had better go with you, Johnny. I’m safer with you.” V. jJoun SmitH and Caspar Lansing sat in the president’s office of the Eureka Manu- facturing Company. It was the morning of John Smith’s triumphal return. Miss Lee, the stenographer, entered. “‘ Take this, Miss Lee,” said John Smith: “Mr. Amos Birp, Eureka Mig. Company: “Dear Sir—It will be necessary for us to accept your resignation from the employ of this company two weeks from this date. I remain, and so forth—” Caspar caught his friend’s arm and clutched hard. ‘“ Don’t you do that!” he cried. “ Don’t you do it, Johnny. Bird U U tion coming to you, if you wanted it. glad you didn’t stand for it—mighty glad. is a good man for his work, and you know it. It’s not fair to fire him—” “Bird is too damn young—a mere in- fant,” John Smith growled, striving to con- ceal a grin. “It’s not fair!” Caspar repeated vehe- mently. ‘ And I—I won’t stand for his being fired, either. TH quit right now if you do that, Johnny—” “Tear up that letter, Miss Lee,” said Smith quietly. “I guess I won’t need you any longer.” When Miss Lee had gone, John Smith turned on Caspar with the wide grin in full control of his face. “ Bully for you, Cas- par! Bird is a good man—in his place— among the juveniles. I only did that for your sake—figuring you had that satisfac- I’m Why, Caspar, the way I feel right now, remembering all I went through out there in California, I wouldn’t fire a yellow dog out of the old Eureka plant.” U U SEA DREAMS AM choked on.the air of the dusty town, I am mad for the smell of the sea, For the moss-gray slips and the urging ships Where the wind in the west when the sun drops down Runs calling and crying to me. I must break from the grip of the stifling town, I must go where the combers roar, Where the wake twists white in the restless night And the crested rollers come galloping down On a grim, wind-buffeted shore. For the winds are becalmed in a smoky town To the man baptized in brine; But the bright seas gleam in my endless dream, Where the tall square-riggers tack up and down And their cargoes are dreams of mine. Karl W. Deizer. CoOPpmMicloookSse©