Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 142: what you’re looking at

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

a t _ Si Bine’s successful flight. 452 The little man was Ho Si Bing. ~ With this flash of recognition, the castles in Cathay that Charlie Chong had builded within his mind so tenderly, again slumped to earth as ruined dust. The whole story of the tragedy screened by the mob un- folded itself before him with the climactic crash of a well developed fictional dénoue- ment. The answer to the scene was patent. Bong Lee, the scholar, had met his fav- orite and dearest enemy, Ho Si Bing, whose boasted necromancy had given him no warning. - These rival ancients had come face to face, backed and spurred by clouds of fol- lowers—followers that he, Charlie Chong, had asked them to recruit to aid him. He could almost picture the meeting. Words, scalding words had poured from the lips of these bitter old men, their hate magnified by years. He flushed at the thought of those words, for each possessed a venom-charged tongue. Then blows, perhaps the knife or gun— even the ancient hatchet. - Blood—the police—the ambulance. Ho The swirling mob. The cries and oaths of adversaries. Each thing he saw, each sound he heard, told the story with corroborative detail. - Benumbed, he turned to half-stagger up the hill to the office of the Chung Mei Bo. ~ With head bowed low, he entered the tiny -room that soon would know him no more. - Upon his desk was a pile of half-wrapped packages, their covers torn as though pry- ‘ing eyes had sought to glimpse their con- tents. Beside the desk stood the recently returned Tze Mong, appraising with studious mien, the page advertisement of the chain stores in the Chung Mei Bo. “The learned Ho Si Bing brought these and departed hurriedly—much disheveled,”’ said the publisher with a gesture toward the motley upon the desk. ‘‘ He said that he was sorry, but the packages were torn im the crush.” A wave of gratitude mitigated the sor- tow that engulfed Charlie Chong. Even in a moment of great tragedy—even perhaps at the peril of his freedom, Ho Si Bing had not forgotten—a true Chinese of the old school, ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. “Then he evaded arrest?’ murmured Charlie. ‘I am elad.” ‘“ Arrest?” Tze Mong’s eyebrows elevated until they were above the rims of his round spectacles. “Yes—the police and the ambulance arrived just before I did—at the store, you know—the store that gave us that adver- tisement.” “The police—Aih.” Tze Mong stroked his button of a nose, “‘ and I was about to congratulate you upon—” He gestured toward the open copy of the paper before him, ‘ Please—please don’t.” Misery shed a hollow light from the young man’s usually sparkling eyes. “I tried, worthy Tze Mong, tried very hard to—”’ A babel of high, excited voices drowned the usual creaking of the stairs and the two men turned to see the gaunt form of Bong Lee lurch into the room. ‘Then you—you are not dead, revered Bong Lee,” gasped Charlie, as he glimpsed the schoolmaster. “Not dead, but nearly so,” rasped the tattered scholar, ‘“‘ but never—not even for you—will I again battle as I have this day. That turtle’s son, Ho Si Bing, tried to snatch the last patent potato peeler from my grasp and I drove him hence—the vermin, scum of gutters. It was on your list and—” Charlie Chong remembered in a horror- stricken moment that he had placed patent potato peelers upon several lists. ‘“—-and,” Bong Lee continued, ‘‘al- though I struggled valiantly, I was unable to complete my purchases in your behalf. Some of my friends were more fortunate before the police came and closed the store.” Again the nimbus of sorrow that had lifted ever so slightly during this recital, shut down upon the young editor. The police had closed the store. Finis had been written. ‘And the ambulance was not for you?” the youth asked. ‘““No—not for me. Several worthy matrons of our race were struck down at the ribbon counter,” responded Bong Lee, “some of the younger set indulged in fisti- cuffs over cherished objects. Blood flowed scomicbooks:co