Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 69: what you’re looking at

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

By JACK CASEY ‘“ Halibut ” Haines I figured him a poor fish. After spending the best part of your life calling balls and strikes in the big league in the summer, and trying to pound football into a lotta college skulls in the fall, you ain’t liable to sweeten to a bird who slides up to you and says, “ Art thee the football mentor?” Honest to gosh I thought that bird was showin’ me a good time, and for a second I was ready to part his nose with a left- hand jab, and I gotta beaut’, when he takes off his hat and stands bowed down like the erring boy in the film come back to the old folks again. Even then I wasn’t sure. There was that thing he said, that—men- tor. I been called a lotta things in my time, but this was a new one, and for a blazing second I wasn’t sure whether this goof was cursin’ or insultin’ me right in my teeth. “Mentor,” I think fast to myself. “Mentor! ‘That’s got somethin’ to do with mentality just as sure as my name’s Curley and I’m red-headed, and this poor fish is |: hafta admit that the first time I saw indicating that I’m either all bone or shy in the loft. Ill just let one go from the hip and he’ll need his ears to smell with,” and my hand was rarin’ to go when he says as sweet as a honeydew melon, ‘“‘ If thee art the football guide, I should like a ‘trial with thine eleven.”’ ‘““Tf you mean my eleven boot, I’ll ride you right outa the park,” I says, not liking that “ thee ” stuff a little bit. “TI was not referring to thy boot,” says he, “ although I see ’tis ample.” Crowdin’ me, see what I mean. my skull, now my dogs. ‘“You mean I got big feet,” I says, drop- ing the football I had in my right hand and putting my mitts on my hips. “T took thy word for the size,” says he. “Well, they’re elevens,” I says, mad as @ revenue raider who knows there’s stuff in the house and can’t find it. | ‘All right,”’ says he, “‘ shoot eleven.” You could have knocked me over with a brick chimney. From skypilot talk he jumps to craps. “‘ Whaddye mean, shoot eleven?” I says for a feeler. First 859 COnmicooolk (C@