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.

960 guess. After about a two weeks’ run we sighted a steamer headin’ west, for Japan thet give us a compass in workin’ order and our location on the chart. Ten days later we sighted Cape Flattery an’ dropped our mud hook in Port Townsend the day after.” ‘‘ Josh, I wonder if you could find that island again if it was worth your while to look for it,” said Pat McGoogle. “JT dunno, Pat; mebbe I could. It is somewhere between Alasky an’ Japan out in the No’th Pacific, away outa the course of ships. It would sure pay big, fer the crude oil is right on top o’ the ground, while v U ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. a piece o’ rock from thet gold ledge we staked out went three thousand dollars to the ton.” . “If I was you, I’d write to Tex Rickard and tell him about those giants you saw. He’d stake you for the sake of having a new attraction for Jersey City and Madison Square Garden. A team of Giant Pugs would be a bigger card than Dempsey and Firpo.” , “The trouble would be that he would have to get a half dozen of those giants, so that the champions would have sparring partners,” laughed Jed Styles as McGoogle started putting out the lights. G Le} THE CONFESSION OF A SENTIMENTAL POET "VE written scores of verses to Full many a fair and dainty maid, With eyes of heavenly azure hue, Brown, hazel, black as ace of spade, In fact, of every earthly shade, And dubbed them angel, siren, fairy; But I am more than half afraid My loves are all imaginary. I’ve raved about a certain Lu, Until I can almost persuade Myself that all I’ve said is true, Instead of just a trick I’ve played. The name (a single trick of trade), Had far more rimes than—well, say Mary, And so I use it. Why evade? My loves are all imaginary. I’ve prated love till I am blue, And never yet have I betrayed The fact that ’twas for revenue Those jingling verses all were made. Supply demand, and get well paid, Demand for verses, tender, merry. ~ A hypocrite? Do not. upbraid— My loves are all imaginary. ENVOI Some poets, true, can serenade The maids they love, so gay and airy, While I do naught but masquerade My loves are all imaginary. Sam S. Stinson. Comicboooks ©