Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 41: what you’re looking at

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

GENTLEMEN ONLY, ‘“None of your darned business,” re- joined Carl Howe scornfully, and to Charlie: “‘ Well, are you going?” Charlie turned pleasantly to the agitated Philip. “This what-men-are-wearing guy is go- ing to put me out of here—if he can.” ‘Here I come home and find my room in a mess and this pole climber snooping around—”’ _ “Well, for Heaven’s sake, quiet down! You’re acting like a couple of ruffians! How can I work?” “ That’s right, boy,” Charlie advised the enraged Carl, “ you must quiet down so the literary light can shine.” The coior rose in Philip Swift’s pallid cheeks. | “It’s outrageous—this conduct!” “Well, what do you stay and look at it ‘for, then?” asked the enraged Carl, and bore down upon the wireman. ‘“‘ Are you going to get out of here or am I going to kick you out?” “ Better save your shoes, Percy.” “ Stop this brawling at once,” command- ed Philip Swift sternly, “Are you going?” “TI told you once—” 3 Carl leaped forward. Charlie Dew swung the hammer in his hand up and backward. It came inte smart contact with a narrow panel mirror behind him. There followed the clink and crash of broken glass mingled with a horrified cry of pro- test from Philip Swift; and into this scene of primitive passion rushed Amalie Ladd. “Qh! What is the matter? What has happened! The mirror—” They stood looking at her sheepishly— the white faced Philip; Charlie Dew with the light of battle in his eyes—and hair; the furious Carl. Her benevolent dream in splinters—like the shattered glass on the floor! Philip Swift was the first to rally. “Come away,” he pleaded, “ this is too He took her arm, but she shook him off. “ But what was it? You didn’t quar- rel!” “ Oh, no,” Charlie Dew said pleasantly, ““T was just going to teach this two-pair- of-pants-to-a-suit guy a little trick, and the 675 literary light there was going to be the au- dience.”’ “He refused to get out of my room,” announced Mr. Howe. “I came home and found him snooping around here—” “But Mr. Howe! Didn’t he tell you? J asked him to fix a light over your couch so that—” * You—you asked him to!” “Ves, and he was so obliging about it,” Amalie said. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean to mess up your room.” “A brutal exhibition of uncontrol,” ob- served Philip Swift. “Well, nobody gave you a free pass to the show,” the wireman reminded him sen- tentiously. Carl Howe was writhing. “You asked him to—but I didn’t know the light was your idea!” Amalie moved swiftly across the room to Charlie Dew, lifted his great freckled hand and gave a little cry of horror. “And see—this! We must put some- thing on it—it’s bleeding terribly.” The wireman’s eyes dropped in amaze- ment to the hand she held, and lifted at once in sly triumph to the others. His voice was resigned but doleful. “It’s nothing,” he said, ‘‘ just a scratch.” “ But it is more than a scratch! How dreadful! Come into the bathroom! Have you a clean linen handkerchief, Mr. Swift? We must find a disinfectant, too.” She led the injured Charlie into the bath- room. Philip hurried off to his room, mut- tering unintelligibly. Carl Howe leaned sullenly against the door, glaring balefully over Amalie’s shoulder at the outwardly meek but inwardly victorious wireman. “It’s just this sort of thing that is so dangerous,” she was saying anxiously as she bathed the wounded hand. “ You might get blood poisoning.” “Or, lockjaw,” contributed Charlie dis- passionately. “Ts it very painful?” 7 “Oh —I can bear it.” He winced as he said it, and Amalie murmured gently: “Poor boy! Now hold it up—that’s it. It doesn’t look very deep.” “You can’t tell how deep these things are—not at first,” Charlie reminded her commiclookskeo inn