Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 12, 1927 — page 158: what you’re looking at

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

152 slim breakfast that long before the sun was overhead hunger was gnawing at us. A turkey dinner would have found a hearty welcome in the shack. Even a plate of cold hash would have been as welcome as a mil- lionaire philanthropist at the headquarters of a hospital building fund drive. “It’s time to blow in our twenty cents for a couple of bowls of soup,” I suggested when my endurance had reached a limit. Bill didn’t put up any remonstrance. We started at once for the village, leaving Mr. Turkey gobbling in his crate. We were almost exceeding the speed limit as we swung up the main street and headed toward the restaurant. Suddenly Bill stopped dead in his tracks. * What ’ll the gol-dinged turkey have to eat?” he ejaculated. “'That’s the least of my worries just now,” I said cheerfully. A vision of the steaming bowl of soup was before me. “We can’t go in there and lap up soup, with the poor turkey starving in his crate back there at the shack,” protested Bill. I saw our soup dinner vanishing the same way the turkey dinner had gone. Rill stood there and argued so eloquently for the turkey that no man with humane principles could have resisted him. Five minutes later, soupless and more hungry than ever, we were headed back to THE ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. the shack with a package of corn meal which we had bought at a little grocery store, the feed mill having been closed for the holiday. We had to blow our entire twenty cents for it. I almost wept as we shoved the money over the counter. ‘J would rather wring that turkey’s neck than feed it,” I ejaculated vehemently as we hove in sight of the shack. ‘““T wish you would,” said Bill. its neck, I mean,” he added. “Holy mackerel!” I exclaimed, pointing into the yard. There stood the empty crate. We made a hurried investigation. There were heavy footprints near by. Several of the slats had been broken off. ‘Somebody stole our turkey,” said Bill. The remark was as superfluous as a summer fur piece on the neck of a flapper. Without further ado, Bill started prying slats off the empty crate and breaking them under foot. ““'What’s the idea?” I queried. Bill had picked up the pieces of wood and entered the shack. I followed him in- side. “It’s an ill wind that blows nobody any good,” he remarked cheerfully, stuffing the wood into the broken grate and stirring the corn meal into the half-filled water can on top of the stove. END “ Wring U U SEA VOICES WALKED on the shore in that silent hour, When the shadows pale and the night is gone, When the east lifts up like a flaming flower _ And the sea is red with the coming dawn. U I hearkened the song that the waves were singing, The song that the waters have ever sung To the white sea-sands and the gulls up-winging, Since that distant dawn when the earth was young. There on the sands as the day was waking, As the rainbow mists went drifting by, A glad new dawn in my heart was breaking In the beauty of earth and sea and sky. Edgar Daniel Kramer | = ys ~ i> >. - - . = 9 — ry. =~ = - TS _ nao — — « ~ ‘ - - : . = me nS COM) — (&) micbooks.