Argosy All-Story Weekly, December 4, 1926 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

UP. on the bench before him and fixed an in- tense gaze on the paper in which it had been wrapped. Ensued a silent moment. Then the man leaped in the air, waved his paper aloft and threw down the revolver as he cried: “Gott im Himmel! -Mein Rosa! Mein kind!” Whereupon he rushed from the park like a truck horse on a sudden holiday. The reporter picked up the revolver, pocketed it and swiftly followed. He was led through a maze of streets, down Custer way, up an alley, into a decrepit lodging, up three flights of stairs. The man burst into a mean room and precipitated himself on a bed obscured in the half light of early morning. _ The re- porter, edging a crafty way in, and un- noticed for the moment in the preoccupa- tion of the two who were there, saw the barest furniture: an iron cot, a wooden chair, and, on the floor, a mattress evident- ly lately slept on. Out of the bed now rose the figure of a child, evidently a girl, judging by the long curls and the soft treble of the excited voice. She embraced and kissed the man who held her tensely in his huge arms, while he mumbled in broken English. After a moment the reporter made a slight noise with his foot. The man wheeled on him with sudden fury, thrusting him- self between the child and the door in which stood the intruder. “T want to speak to you—” began the reporter. “ Mit me?” “ Yes—you. Is this yours?” The re- porter produced the revolver. The man ejaculated: “Ja! Ja!” and turned to the child with voluble patter. Obediently the youngster dropped back in- to the cot. The evident father drew his caller hastily outside, his face indicating fear and a species of stupid braggadocio. He led the way to a public sink down the hall. There, facing the young man, he began: “ Sprech- en zie Deutsch?” “No, I speak plain American.” - © Me, too. Vere you get heem?” pointed to the revolver, /~ He 407 ‘‘ Where you left it; in the park. I want you to tell me what you were doing with it there. Come. Speak up.” _ “The man hung his head. “Tf you want me to save you from the law you had better tell the truth. Were you going to kill yourself with it?” The man clapped his hand over the re- porter’s mouth, hissing: “Ssh! Not so loud. My baby, my Rosa hear! TI tell, but you promise one t’ing. Rosa never know.” “Very well. I promise.” The.man seemed so overwhelmed with relief that he promptly subsided into dumb- ness. Several times he opened his mouth as if he honestly desired to speak, but could not. He leaned against the side of the wall for support, and, in dumb show, begged for patience. In his hand he still clasped the newspaper in which the revolver had been wrapped. The reporter grew impatient. ““ Answer,” he demanded; “ did you go to the park this morning to shoot yourself? Come. The truth. Did you?” The man dropped his head in assent. “Why did you change your mind?” For answer the man thrust forth the newspaper he held and pointed to an item on an inside page. The reporter read: The Grand Lodge of the Mystic Order of Mahatma announces that no more insurance can be paid to beneficiaries of the members of the order due to the application to the court for’ relief from insolvency. This decision takes effect to-day. Swiftly the reporter began to compre- hend. “You are a member of this lodge?” he asked. The workman nodded and then gave way to an emotional reaction. He sobbed, with his head in his arms. The reporter was insistent. “When did you last pay dues?” he asked. “Las’ mont’. Dey collect to-morrow!” After a pause the workman passionately insisted: “ Y’understand?” “How much insurance did you have?” comicbooks. ~ ee ae — = « £ - ee ea