Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 7, 1925 — page 50: what you’re looking at

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

‘Sometimes it is,” I reminded him, cyn- ical. “ But ours ain’t going to be,” he de- clared. “Tt ain’t no time to talk about a finish,” I snapped, “‘ when we ain’t even started.” “Honey, it kills me to hear you talk like this,” he said, hurt. = Kills you, does it?” I snarled. ‘‘ Then (’m wearing the wrong color crape.” I looked down at my drenched and draggled wedding gown. ‘“‘ A widow before I-am a bride,” I snickered. The rain was pelting the leaves outside with a soft, uncertain sound like the pat- tering steps of a kiddie ceming downstairs in the night. It was kinda lulling, too, and Andy’s head sunk deeper on my shoulder. Then the rain stopped, and the cold, creep- ing mist give way to a clear gray light. It was almost morning.”’ “Go on, Andy,” I encouraged. ‘“‘ Snooze a little. You’re tired.” “You do, too,” he-»whispered. “ Lean against me, honey. Rest your head comfy.” ‘No, Andy,” I refused, gentle, sitting erect. « I’m all right.” He erunted, drowsy, and barrow his head against my knee. Then his breath come deeper and deeper. Once or twice he felt for my hand till he found it. Then he slept with his lips soft against it, con- tented as a baby. So I set there, watching him, while the skies over us turned rosy. And in my heart come the feeling that now, if never before, I loved my Andy. It ain’t no test when you’re strolling on your sweetie’s arm down Broadway. It ain’t no test when he makes love to you under the moon with an orchestra of ban- jos in the distance. The real test comes when he’s laying unconscious, a cold sub- ject for speculation. For sleep is the pure, “warm water that washes away whatever dis- guise he has put on—and you see him as he is. - And so I saw my Andy for the first time. And he wasn’t handsome and he wasn’t brave and he wasn’t masterful—just Andy. But I loved him. THE ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. In another minute he would be conscious of a new day. Hasty I got out my kit and repaired damages; and I chuckled to myself as I applied the good old schoolgirl complexion, thinking what a time I would be having forevermore trying to be the first one up in the morning so Andy could preserve his rosy ilusions of me. Must every wife, I wonder, sleep with a vanity case under the pillow? ~ Snap! went the lid of Old Faithful, and I leaned back, to all appearances merely a sleeping beauty, but, like Pathé News, I “seen all, knowed all.” Andy was sitting up on one elbow and bending over me. “Poor little tired kid,’’ he whispered soft. He stroked back my hair, gentle, and I could feel his eyes steady on me. After a minute I let my lids flutter; then I sighed and opened them, misty. ‘““'W-where am I, Andy?” I murmured. “You been asleep, dear,” he told me, “having a nice long rest.” ‘* Have I?” I yawned, delicious. ‘‘ What day is it, Andy?” ** June 13,” he announced, a thrill in his voice. ‘ The luckiest day in the year!” The sun was beaming beautiful as we left the park and every shining bough sung “Here comes the bride!” We got to the Municipal Building at half past seven, and set there, waiting, because Andy said he wasn’t going to take no more chances. And so we was married. And the Delaware Water Gap was even more won- derful than I thought. Tt’s been a year. Folks often asks me why it is my Andy and me has never had a cross word—never a fight to mar our marriage. And I smile, reminiscent, and answer soft: ‘ It was that one awful day. Everything happened in that day that ever could happen. Fighting? We got that out of our system before we even stepped into the ring. And let me tell you, folks, no matter how gray the skies is—no matter how weary the waiting—they is always another train leaving for the Dela- ware Water Gap. All you got to do is get it.” END