Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 19, 1924 — page 129: what you’re looking at

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

GENTLE in a jiffy, and as Micky goes into his famous covering-up tactics, Joe lets go with a pile- driver; he knocks Micky’s arms down the same as if they is pieces of a willow tree; they is the sound of a pistol-like crack and Micky goes back. Joe rushes him like a veteran of the ring, not knowing what he’s doing, of course, but being just crazy with the heat. He slams Micky on the point of the jaw and alongside of the ear at the same time with both fists. The fight is over, right there in the first round—and for a minute the crowd is so still you could hear a pin fall. Then a cyclone breaks, a riot of noises. Two doctors worked over the poor sap for nearly an hour, and when they finished they carried him off to the hospital. He was out of the game for nearly a year and comes back with all his nerve gone—with the results that he was batted round by all the second-rate fighters in the ring. But all I is interested in is the beautiful gate receipis, the noise of the sports dope- sters, and the racket they will make over my boy to-morrow. U GENDER. 599 The next morning, about ten o’clock, I goes over to Joe’s room and finds him gone. I gets kind of excited, wondering what’s happened to him; when all of a sudden, I looks at the floor and sees all his pen and ink pictures torn to ribbons. This gets me crazy, as I thinks maybe the poor boob has gone out and committed suicide just at the height of his glory. Pretty soon, I dis- covers a big envelope lying on the table, addressed to me. I takes it up with trembling fingers and hastily reads the scrawled lines: DEAR Mr. BockER: I’m gone back to Montana for a couple of weeks of the rest. I finds they 1s more money and fame in fightin’, and 1 has decided not to draw no more pictures. You can call off the exhibition for me at the Metropolitan. I’m goin’ out to Montana to show some of my friends what I can do. You hold my money. Will be back in a couple of weeks; fix some good fights for me, as I likes it bet- ter than drawin’ pictures. Yours, Joe. Can you beat it! Who says prizc- fighters ain’t got the grand temperament? U U RELAY (To My Son) OY, as I near the finish line, Breathless and breaking with the stress, Wait there and laugh, old pal of mine, For youth ean laugh at weariness. Blood of my blood, the goal is yon; Touch my eld hand—and carry on! For that is life: a story old Of heart athrob and laboring lung; Of rainbo and the pot of gold, Of songs eternally resung— Of sunlit speeding toward the west Until there comes the night—and rest. Until there comes the night... . but dawn Is yours, my son, and youth and zest— Touch my old hand—and carry on! Olin Lyman. MMIC MOO Sn) (S@) ‘ - if ‘5 e\ es OS me AE AA ou fut arte BAG! _