Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 19, 1924 — page 120: what you’re looking at

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

590 with the speech that already he has worked out some back yard dreams of herding him- self into the ring for the purpose of tattoo- ing some babies’ faces. ‘You know who I am?” I asks, getting out my card. “ No, you don’t. I’m Tad Bocker, the fight promoter and manager of Eddie Gerker, Wild Ike Smith, and some more little artists?” ‘Ts that so?” he says; and takes my card, giving it the once-over. While I is standing here watching him and waiting for some wild shriek of joy, the tired looking plug which is attached to his wagon sticks his head over Joe’s shoulder and nuzzles his face, the same as if he sure loved this baby. Joe tears his eyes away from my card and begins a pet- ting party with the nag; and for a minute J think I will laugh in his ears and walk on down the street. I has seen some goofy beans in my time, but this here one is the gold medal egg. “ Say,” he says, turning round and start- ing to climb his wagon; ‘‘ I got to be goin’ on. I killed a lot of time and [I ain’t takin’ no chances losin’ my job.” He looks round at me, and a flat-faced smile spreads over his unnatural face. ‘“‘ Savin? my money, mister; studyin’ to be a artist.” ‘Wait a minute!” I snaps, grabbing him by the back of his shirt. “‘ You is a artist —I mean, you got the makin’ of a real ring artist.” ‘“T mean pictures,” he says, looking at me with the same dumb-bell smile. “ Pictures?” I asks, pawing round in my brains for what he is driving for. ‘“‘ Movin’ pictures?” “No,” he says, and I thinks he does a sneer. ‘I draw pictures with pen and ink.” Puff that one for a no-decision bout! Here is a peerless gent dragging a lame horse and a busted down express wagon round the town, knockin’ big babies cuckoo as easy as you or me would smack a fly— and when I tries to talk prize fight stuff to him, he comes back with a pen and ink artist line. If I thought this bozo was full of lead nails before, I now has the idea he . is crazy with hay fever. ‘“Whata you mean, pen and ink?” J in- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. quires, looking round in my pockets for a cigar and not finding it. ‘ Pictures,” he says, with a icelike stare. “1 do them on paper with a pen and some ink.” ‘““ Whata you goin’ to do with them when you gets through wastin’ the paper?” I asks, thinking maybe this will bring him to life and make him wise to the facts he is in a tough world and not a silk-lined hen coop. “Some day,” he says, and he looks right up at the sky—and if you has ever seen a dyin’ fish trying to get some dreams out of the above, then you knows exactly what this wagonman looks like—‘ some day I will sell them and become a famous artist.” ‘“ Laugh yourself to death!” I says with enthusiasm. ‘‘ Ain’t you never been down in Greenwich Village?” ‘“ Sure,” he returns with another far-away smile. ‘“ That’s the first place I was when I come from Montana.” ‘* Montana?” I asks, thinking this one is going to give off some more choice infor- mation. ‘‘ Who drove you to Montana?” ‘*“ T was born there,” he says; and he be- gins to make some more love to the horse. “You don’t mean it?” I chuckles. ‘““ Maybe you was a cow-hand in the pas- tures out there, huh?” “I sure was,” he says; and I sees he is dreaming back there in the Golden West. “Yes, sir; I was the best horse wrangler in that there country.” ‘ Boy,” I says, reaching over and tap- ping him lightly on the arm, “ if you thinks you was a horse wrangler, you oughta start wranglin’ the gents in the ring. Looky here, in some few months I could put you in the way of cleaning up some real dough.” ‘““Mebbe you could,” he says; and does a flying leap, landing on top of the busted- up seat of the wagon. ‘‘ Anyways, I don’t care for money. It’s my art which counts.” “Wait a minute!” I yells, grabbing a spoke in the wheel and trying to keep the horse from running away. “ Ain’t you in- terested in being a prize fighter ?”’ “ Sure,” he says, looking down from the exalted heights, “‘ but I’m drivin’ a wagon now. They ain’t no use to start a new job till you finish the one you’re on.” ‘Full of bananas!” I groans. And as COMME OOKSsCO