Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 7, 1925 — page 48: what you’re looking at

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

, er, ‘ « 13 i \ ; r v4 S| MPs + f Pe RATA AY AT ei she ee gas ‘AVG Pe SONS : hs ATV AER ig Did. 1 de CoH We ad ; ¢ Oy 4 Pase wae P| SALE Mae she Stat hae - ; ny ¥) rok oy Vo fi a 1 DENG Ail! ty : mA ay Rh } ‘ he ‘““Say, listen, mister,” he asked, respect- ful, ‘can I go back a minute?” ‘What for?” snarled the officer. Andy was flustered. “Think I dropped something,” he stut- tered. “All right, but be quick about it.” Andy wandered back to the bench, his eyes on the ground, while I stood, impa- tient. He fumbled around in the grass for a couple minutes, then picked something up. It was his gardenia, the doggy, little old withered gardenia that had been so fresh and gay that morning. But he put it back on his lapel, gentle, and come to give me his arm like a bridegroom. And so we strolled on, outta the glare of the lamp and the cop, down a little by- way that led into darkness. “ Where does this road go, Andy?” I in- quired, timid. “This ain’t no road, dear,” he told me. “Tt’s a bridle path.” “A bridal pata Andy!” We walked down it, slow, finally turning off into an open space bordered with bushes like the fringe of hair on a man’s bald head. “ Flop,” ordered Andy. “ We camp here the rest of the night.” For a long while we set, watching a weird moon play light tunes on the seft fog that shimmered over the grass. And we didn’t say nothing much, there being nothing to say. And in the bushes little hidden crea- tures moved—little creatures that was hap- py in their homes and each other. “This is real nice, ain’t it, Andy?” I observed, cheerful, after a spell of silent contemplation. ‘‘I never knew the parks was so pretty, did you? Lookit the fog fingers come creeping over the ground like a bogyman. Now the moon’s gone in. Look, Andy, ain’t she the little devil, flirt- ing behind her fan like that?” “T don’t see no fan,” said prosy old Andy. “Tt’s the clouds,” I explained, hushed. * A cloud fan of gray feathers tipped with silver. See, now she comes a-peeping out, coylike. I—I wonder what it’s like now down to the—the Delaware Water Gap?” Andy kissed my fingers, thoughtful, and sighed I. ‘Oh, ~ Beac ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. then looked up into my face, bending close. “ Don’t, Andy,” I begged. “Oh, Andy, don’t kiss me; I couldn't ‘bear it!” He frowned and picked a long, dewy grass to chew. The moon had hid her face for good—frightened, I guess, at the weird shadows that sneaked through the creepy mist. It got cool, too, and Andy shiv- ered. ** You’re cold,” I said, worried. “I ain’t,” he denied. “Well, what ‘re you doing, then?” I snapped. “ Imitating Gilda Grey?” “No,” he said, weary, “ but I feel like imitating Rip Van Winkle.” “And sleep for twenty years!” I laughed short. “ Well, you won’t find me waiting for you when you wake up, deary. I done my bit.” “ Nagging me again,” sighed Andy. “TI ain’t nagging you!” I contradicted, savage. “I’m merely informing you you’re cold.” **So’s the north pole; but what ’re you going to do about it?” “You oughtn’t to of wore that Palm » I told him. “Well, what did you want me to wear?” he growled like a cross bear. “‘ Red flan- nel or a fur lined overcoat?” ““ Don’t try to be funny,” I warned him. “You know your own limitations.” “Funny?” he echoed, scornful: “‘ I don’t have to ivy. The situation speaks for it- self.” ‘“And you rehearsed it,” I mocked. “ If you had come for me this morning when you should of— There you go shivering again. I know you’re cold.” “Yow’re not acting like no steam heater yourself,” he remarked. “ Where’s your coat?” “Over in Jersey with the rest of the things. Oh, Andy,” I cried, a thought smiting me, ‘‘ he must be waiting still!” ‘Who waiting?” “Pell Prendergast. He said he’d stay with my grips till we come.” “Who's he, and what’s he doing with your stuff?” I hesitated. “ Well, he—he used to a me a little,”