Argosy All-Story Weekly, December 4, 1926 — page 155: what you’re looking at

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

-kimono together with the other. _ PRISONERS during ‘her school teaching days and had been ritzy ever since. : “It’s that girl again,” she complained, holding her ear with one hand and her pink “T can’t stand it. And my daughter can’t do her studies.” Her daughter, Maud, a young, placid girl with a kind of pale prettiness that her mother fixed up real appealing at times, was taking a boshology course three afternoons a week. When her mother wasn’t spilling French, she was dissecting complexes. “That noise she makes is simply ter- rible,”’ went on Mrs. Beamish, referring to Mrs. LaMarr’s talented daughter. “ Just listen to it.” Above the general musical manslaughter, came words which we assorted out as mean- ing: “You used to make me blue—berry, But now I don’t give a straw—berry For all your love, you goose—berry ; You’re only a rasp—berry now.” “ That’s jazz,” I explained. “Whatever it is,’ declared my prize boarder, “ it’s got to stop, or Maud and I will move.” ‘“ T’ll speak to her about it,” I gulped. “If you will, see voo play,” she smiled, sour, and turned to coddle a pair of curlers. II. Oo things went. In the tug of war be- tween my boarders, I was the old hemp rope. My nerves got frayed. I tried to please everybody. But it seemed only the death, dismissal or disgrace of one would pacify the other. Running a boarding house is like trying to juggle an egg, a soup plate, a whisk- broom and three billiard balls at once. An amateur simply can’t do it. And it was little Miss Frankie that was the odd piece. What to do with her? I couldn’t pack her off, young and tender and trusting as she was. I couldn’t take her money or they’d take the piano and she’d never be famous. [ couldn’t write her folks back home to send for her, or her heart would break. 10 A OF DEBT. But I couldn’t let her stay on, eating - three square meals a day out of my pocket and scaring away the paying guests with her African syncopation, could I? As Sir Conan Doyle would say—there must be some happy medium. At last I struck it. I would invite my young, rich and idle nephew, Stanley Mc- Guire, to visit me, instigate a romance, marry the children off to each other, collect her back rent from him—and hit the trail of my dreams again. It was as simple as a movie ingenoo. Stanley accepted the invite all right. His folks had tooted to Florida for a month, taking the cook with them, and he was willing enough to listen to the lure of lemon pie that I held out to him. At the table that night, I maneuvered to have him, parked next to my little song- bird. She was looking real chipper, all . in yellow like a canary, and Stanley noticed it. In fact, they took to each other right . away. Things was going to be simple! 465 But I pulled one boner. Maud Beamish | and her ma _ installed themselves right across the table. Having noticed my nephew’s new blue roadster outside, they took it on themselves to be real agreeable. Maud looked like an overblown rose in pink, placidly alluring, and Ma Beamish was rampant in purple. ‘Of course, you’ve been across, Mr. Mc- Guire,” she smiled, forcing Stanley’s gaze from little Miss Frankie, at whom he’d been looking since the bean soup. ‘Why, yes,” he answered, politely. [ve so regretted that I’ve never been able to take my daughter with me on any of my trips,’’ she went on, corraling his at- tention, ruthless. ; Stanley smiled vague at Maud and turned to give a real teeth revealer to Miss Frankie. But the look that she tossed back wasn’t as friendly as before, and she edged away to talk with little Miss Meeker, the school mar’m, that was mincing her hash. ‘“T’ll never forgetethe Rue de la Pax,” continued Mrs. Beamish, with a chummy air that excluded the rest of the table. “ Don’t you love it in the spring, Mr. Mc- Guire? I did so want Maud to see it— (C@) m S Ehboo