Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 170: what you’re looking at

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

800 my bein’ able ter lick any man in Chatham County, an’ ef he ever got a chance he’d like ter show me what fightin’ is—an’ gen- erally aggravatin’ me. So I just come over ter put a stop ter that kin’ of talk.’ “Well, Dave, did you lick your man?’ T asked. *“* Not exactly, sah,’ he replied. ‘ We fit yesterday mornin’, an’ I called it a draw. And then we fit again yesterday afternoon, an’ he called it a draw. But I honestly think, sah, I got the worst of it. Anyway, u ther. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, I’m satisfied that he’s the one man that can give me satisfaction.’ ““* Dave,’ I asked, gazing in awe at the ‘ satisfaction ’ spread all over his face and expressed by his painful movements, ‘ who is this fellow, if you don’t mind tellin’ me?’ “¢ Well, I don’t know as I min’ tellin’ you, sah, except that it’s a sort of a family matter, an’ I wouldn’t like it to go no fur- It is my young brother, Harry. He was only a kid when I left heah; but he’s sorter growed up while I was away.’ ” Uv U A LITTLE BIT OF BITTERS WHEN the score is tie, at zero, and my own especial hero (He can hit a ball from Hereabouts to Hence! ) Raps the pellet such a wallop that its cover shows a scallop As the homer soars a mile above the fence, J am glutted with such gladness, such amazing, merry madness, That I smash my nearest neighbor on the jowl— And it agitates me queerly to discover that it’s merely A long foul! If the Enemy are winning up until the final inning, When My Pretty Pets regain their batting eye, And though two have been retired, all my hopes are freshly fired With another run on third to make it tie; If the batter belts a grounder, such a nasty little bounder That he’s “safe” by quite a margin on the clout— Ah, my kingdom for a lasso! as I hear that husky basso, ‘“* Batter’s out!” How I always revel in it—in that psychologic minute, Just immediately before the start of play! All the ecstasies are blended when the practice pranks are ended And the ump has sung “ The batt’ries for to-day!” Flooding joy with naught to bar it! Not a single thing to mar it! But—(and this shall chill your blood within your veins) From the bench unto the platte~ strides the visitor’s first batter And—it rains! Yet I’m fain to make confession to a personal obsession— I would scorn to have the rose without the thorn. All herein recited terrors, and such other faults—like errors— Would the game be sweeter still of such things shorn? Though I didn’t hear your answer, I will bet my only pants, sir, That you yelled in indignation, “Leave ’em there!” For, although they may annoy us, they’ re the salt upon our joyous Baseball fare! Edward S. Morrissey. . 10 A Gomicboo “S (S@)