Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 7, 1925 — page 43: what you’re looking at

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

SUSPENSE. 513 = arette hanging easy from his lips which he would park every once in a while be- tween two certain black keys and com- nenee singing in a voice full of stifled pas- sion: “ You left me ow-it in the rain-n-n!” And as £ danced I buried my nose tight against the withered little gardenia on my ~ bridegroom’s lapel, and if tears counted for anything it should of revived immediate. Time toddled on. ‘Now what?” I wanted to know, watch- ing Andy labor with his demitask. “ What’s next on our delightful little program?” “How about a hike up the Avenue?” suggested my should-of-been husband with Spirit. ‘All right,” I agreed, anxious to join the fashion promenade and show off my new wedding gown. “It suits me to a tee, as Mr. Hagen might of put it.” Coy, I grabbed hold my Andy’s laundry lugger and we set forth for the avenue, so- called Fifth because it usually takes five figures to make its acquaintance, while I done it in one. Now, don’t receive the idea I’m in the habit of handing myself homage. I merely wish to state that mine is the sort of thirty-six that puts the “suits? in bathing suits. Even Andy, a mere male, noticed the hit J was creating and as he looked down at me, admiring the dignity and poise with which £ swept along, I could see he was appreciating at last how well bread his but- tered half was. Yet, while I walked, lean- ing on my escort’s arm and turning to meet his gaze with a vague, interested smile, in- side my heart there drummed the solemn notes of a dead march. Then a different music come to our ears. We stopped beside a long striped awning that crawled from the church to the curb where an assortment of craning necks had assembled. Then the music stopped and down the striped lane come a bride all in white, and a man, not half so handsome as Andy, steered her by the elbow to a big blue limousine that was waiting. A bride—! “Gee, ain’t she beautiful?” 1 whispered to Andy, as her smiling face peered from the car. “ Just like a queen.” ACFE ain’t seeing her,” said Andy, uninter- == _ssted. = “Tm —— right at you, sweet.” “ But I ain’t a bride,” I reminded him, tremulous. ‘Well, by heck, you’re going to ae ” he cried, Fics. “The man that married her: can marry us!” He hitched hold of my hand and dragged me through the mob that was still empty- ing outta the church. “Don’t, Andy, don’t!” I warned him, scared, but he didn’t hear me. In a minute we was standing inside, alone save for each other and the white-robed minister that was walking contemplative towards the altar, banked with lilies and white roses. We strolled up the aisle, slow, and even Andy was hushed. Then we come to the first marble steps. “Mister!” cailed Andy, soft but insis- tent, and gripped my hand tighter. The minister turned, fingering his long, purple scarf. When he lamped us he give a start. “We want to get married, mister, ” an- nounced Andy, hopeful. The man looked ever more surprised, and a queer, scornful smile crept mto the cor- ners of his mouth—or it might of been only the shadows. shifting in the light of the candles. “Immediate,” added Andy. Stil he did say nothing. “Say, ain’t you the one that tied the couple that just ambled out?” my fiancé wanted to know. cé t am.” : “Then won’t you tie us?” pleaded Andy. “Look, we got the ring and the certificate and everything.” “T’m sorry,” said the preacher, turning away. But Andy touched his long white sleeve, reverent yet persistent. “ Please, mister.” The servant of God winced, like he had been touched by the plague. _ “Ym sorry,” he said again, firm and cold as the marble on the altar. “You hitched #iem,” argued Andy. en the minister burst forth, vehement. “Have you any idea, young man, who they were?” — “~Tm listening,” said Andy.