Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 33: what you’re looking at

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

GENTLEMEN ONLY. couldn’t dream of taking advantage of your generosity. I couldn’t dream oi it!” He left the door wide as he fled down the steps. His hat wasstill in his hand and the breeze caught his refulgent hair as he catapulted over the pavements like a flam- ing arrow. If, As she closed the door and went slowly back to her own room, there was hurt amazement in Amalie Ladd’s gentle blue eyes. By noon the expression had become fixed. The charmingly worded advertise- ment had drawn enough applicants for her rooms to satisfy the most ambitious person. But Amalie was a great many other things besides ambitious. She was exacting, for one thing, and the applicants while display- ing the greatest clemency in the matter oi stairs and baths were singularly disinclined to discuss personal habits or family history. “And of course, being a stranger and new to this sort of thing, I feel I really must have the confidence and codperation of the young men who come to live in my house,” she was saying desperately. Sitting on the extreme edge of a very straight chair, her listener, the tenth by exact count, was regarding her attentively. He was a slim young man—anemic, Amalie had decided—with horn-rimmed glasses and scrupulously brushed dark hair. “Of course,” he said and his voice yearned over her, “I can readily under- stand how you feel. New York is so over- run with undesirables. You must protect yourself—” ‘But it isn’t only that,” she interruptec and knew for the first time that she was understood. “It isn’t myself I’m thinking of so much as the young men. That’s why I advertised for gentlemen only—they’re so much more helpless than women. And the environment of most of these lodging houses—”’ “T know,” he said fervently. ‘ And when you can’t pay much—I can’t afford over eight a week—I only make thirty.” ‘Oh, but thirty!” she beamed. ‘“ And you’re young yet. And perhaps you haven’t been in New York very long.” ‘“‘ Six months,” he confided. ‘“ I’m in the 667 publishing business—shipping clerk in Duke, Grace & Company, the music pub- lishers.”’ ‘““ How nice,”’ she hazarded brightly. “I’m taking up literature in the evening.” “ Literature,” breathed Amalie. ‘“‘ And you are all alone in New York?”’ ‘** Yes,” he said and sighed. “I’ve been living’on East Twenty-Fourth Street, but L can’t study. She will stuff up the-gas jet.” “ Stuff up the gas jet!” “With cotton,” he explained sadly and caught the charged sympathy she was emanating. ‘‘ And the towels—two a week. I feel that I must make a change. I’m not a rolling stone—I hate changes—but IL must.” “Why, of course you must!” She was indignant. “I can see that it’s telling on your health. I’m afraid you work too late at night.” “Tt’s the poor light,” he reminded her. “So hard on your eyes,’ she agreed firmly. ‘No wonder you have to wear glasses.” “Tye worn them since I was ten,” he told her. ‘‘ That was the year my mother died.” “Your mother!” she cried. are an orphan.”’ “No,” he admitted and sighed again, very gently. “I have a father but—vwell, we have nothing in common. Except the bond of blood which is, after all, no bond, do you think—unless there is sympathy as well?” ‘“ Exactly,” concurred Amalie and towed him back into more familiar waters. ‘‘ So you ship music.” “ And fill orders,” he appended with a touch of pride, “‘ for teachers mostly. Piano studies for the lower grades, oratorios for Easter and Christmas carols.” ‘“ And—and this, this new music—jazz?” His eyes behind their glasses were fierce. ‘““T wouldn’t,” he told her vehemently. “It’s bad enough to have to handle the other stuff, to fill orders for sentimental hokum. But jazz! -I wouldn’t touch it.” “ T think it’s directly responsible for the crime wave,” Amalie said firmly. ‘“Impossible!”” He was quite savage. “And popular songs!” “ Then you oO COMmiclooolks (C@