Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 11, 1925 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

166 shoes. The shoes were all done up with the rest before he thought—why not wear them? It was summer and there was no real need for shoes, and his stockings were torn and not fit to take, but it would be easier to carry his shoes on his feet. So he did. _ He ate the last of the oatmeal and put all the coffee in the pot, which made it very strong. He drank it all—three cups—and began humming to himself: was it Ulysses who started on his ten year adventuring in the great places of the world, sure and happy because he knew how to see into the core of things as they are? . Fortunately he had cleaned the motor cycle the day before, because he thought he would go to the cemetery in it, not realizing the judge would take him in his flivver. But it had less than a gallon of fuel. He remembered the gasoline under the counter in the gallery used for cleaning the rifles, and poured that in the tank, which made it half full. Probably that would be enough io get him there. Then, when all was ready, and the first rosy finger of dawn was stirring along the horizon, and the hens next door were be- ginning to mutter, he went to the work bench behind the targets in his own little cubby-hole and wrapped in a piece of news- paper the automatic sighting device with its hand-rest. He tied the two bundles, one containing the clothes, the other the device, securely under the saddle, and then, in the dark, went all about the gallery and once, for the last time, through the upstairs rooms, patting each object affectionately. His hand rested an extra moment over the arm- chair which had been his father’s. Then a lump came into his throat and he ran down to the cycle. This was his farewell. A moment later the pup-put-put of the machine rang like a rifle volley along River Street. ‘“ Cy’s squirt devil,” the judge ~called it. As he passed the Town Hall he could barely distinguish the clock in the tower. It showed eight minutes to four. He was on the cement road within a quar- ter of an hour. He passed through Barne- ‘gat like an artillery charge before the sun = =: - was up. At Forked River the constable ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. sleeping above the fire house heard his ex- , haust way down the road, looked out, saw him coming, and remarked to himself, “ One a them eighty mile cops f’m ’Lantic City lammin’ a joy rider; I’ll lay odds on him,” turned over and went to sleep. He saw the rim of the sun come out of the harbor at Toms River as he crossed the old bridge, where he saw the first sign of life and had to slow down to twenty miles. He had been making forty-five to sixty. The next he knew the six o’clock whistle was blowing in the medicinal factory in New Brunswick and he was on the edge of: the town. Oh, he would make it surely now! He cut down to forty miles. No use of being overhauled for speeding—not now. He began to think: Would Mart and Jim show up for their string of BB’s and be the first to discover his absence? Who would tell the judge? He had left no word, nothing written. It wasn’t necessary. He could send a postal to the judge. That would be enough. ‘That, and the message he would have for Mr. Harper—some day. As he got to Newark and had to slow up through the bad lands beyond, for the early trucks were already thronging the bumpy Belgian blocks, he wondered how Linda Catherwood would take his leaving, Would she miss him at all? Perhaps he ought to send her a postal, too. Maybe not, though. He ought to be back before Christmas, and then it would be nice to have her ask him why he didn’t write and to be able to say he didn’t know she wanted him to write. That was better, for she /ad been preferring Jim Baggerly. Christmas was a terrific ways off—fully six months. By that time he would have his patent and the money would be coming in fast. Oh, he ought to get back to Linkers- port by Thanksgiving. There he was at Jersey City in time for the first ferry at seven o’clock. He took © the Desbrosses Street boat, by mistake, but despite that he was on Brooklyn Bridge by seven thirty. He barely looked down at the vast river, barely noticed the hurrying throng, of which he seemed a component part. Now, with the end of his journey almost in sight, he became fearful that too EComichbooks (E@)