Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

THE GOAT-GETTER. “Luck! I don’t call it luck, missing out one of your jolly evenings—”’ Jolly!’ Maybe they were jolly once! This one was gosh-awful ghastly, if you get what I mean. Oh, what an ending for an almost perfect party!” “ Why, Bertha, what—”’ “Listen,” Bertha said tensely, grasping the bookkeeper’s arm by way of emphasis. “Tt was this pest, Simms Daly. Like a sap, I let him in! Oh, my gosh, Swinny—” “What?” Swinton gasped. Bertha whispered tensely: ‘‘ You never guessed? Swinny, he’s a barytone—” “You don’t mean to say he sings—in company?” “Does he! I might have guessed it, from the noise he makes around the office; but I never tumbled, even when he showed up with a brief case bulging with sheet music. I supposed it was just some kind of sample case. Right in the midst of a fine evening, everybody getting chummy and talking and laughing and cutting up, this boob ducks out, gets his music, and takes the center of the floor. ‘ Well, boys and girls, Uncle Simms has got a nice little surprise for you! Uncle Simms is going to sing a little piece.’ “And he did. Yes, indeed, he did! He sang ‘ Asleep in the Deep,’ and that one about the ‘ Sands of the Desert,’ and a wop opera song about Donna Somebody, and on and on and on. Nothing could stop him short of an ax—and his skull would turn an ax; probably just ruin a real good blade. Nobody talked, after that, Swinny! The party was blotto! “ Pretty soon one and another said they guessed they’d have to drift along. They didn’t even wait for refreshments—no- body but one or two tried and true friends —real pals! And Simms Daly, of course! He stayed till I yawned in his face and threw him out. Wanted to sing to me alone, but I stepped on that!” “ Ghastly!” Swinton sympathized. ‘“ It must have been a massacre. Something ‘has got to be done, such as poisoning, to fix that go-getter!”’ “‘ Goat-getter, you mean,” Bertha Edge declared morosely. “ He’s got mine, Pll broadcast!” — —— “You said it, Bertha! He’s getting — everybody’s goat!” IV. AFTERNOON of the day before Christmas. Throughout the J. K. Blevitt office rigid discipline of business had relaxed. The lunch hour rule was forgotten. Employees straggled in at two o’clock and at two thirty, their bundle-laden arms and the © excitement in their faces excuse enough for one day. Blevitt and Reed were in Blevitt’s office. J. K. Blevitt was in a state of nerves tech- nically known as a blue funk. No high- strung actor facing his first night suffered as J. K. Blevitt suffered on this one after- noon of the year. It was the custom of the Bleyitt organi- zation to make Christmas presents. Bo- nuses, graded in amount according to earn- ings and length of service, were distributed by the head of the company. As a Santa Claus, J. K. Blevitt was a complete bust— a flop. The best J. K. Blevitt could do was stagger feebly into the big office bearing his basket of envelopes, read out the name of each employee, and hand him his pres- ent with a nervous glare that suggested he was passing out two-week notices to every- body and sincerely hoped they would all starve to death in most pitiable circum- stances before they got another job. Once the employees had burst into J. K. Blevitt’s office with a presentation walking stick and a traveling bag. They made speeches at him. Blevitt never fully re- covered from the horrors of the day, nor his fear that the performance would be re- peated. That the blankety blank, dash, asterisk fools would keep quiet and take his money and let him alone was the dearest wish of his deeply sensitive soul. He loved them all, if only they wouldn’t show any indecent gratitude! Reed was busily checking over the bonus list and the envelopes. . ‘‘ All set!” he an- nounced calmly. Blevitt groaned, a hollow, croaking prophecy of disaster. Comicboolks com