Argosy All-Story Weekly, Vol. 189, No. 4 — page 90: what you’re looking at

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

560 “That’s right,” said Roy, satisfied, de- livering the steak to those willing jaws. “ He spoke for it.” “T didn’t hear him,” I observed, sour. ‘“ He did, though,” insisted my husband, cutting off another fifteen cents’ worth of the prize sirloin I had slaved over all after- noon. ‘‘ Now, this time sit up for it, Bus- ter. No, sit, not stand. Come on, now, sit up for it, sir. That’s good—no, si, not stand.” I snickered, Roy flushed. “Well, anyhow,” he alibied, giving up the meat without further struggle, “he stood up for it. Anybody’s dog could sit. This one is different, and besides it’s a lot more difficult to stand than sit.” “Yeah. You’d discover that if you stood in the kitchen all day the way I do, getting meals.” “Are you tired to-night, hon?” “Oh, yeah, to-night. But not the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year. Never mind, I love it. I just love playing chef to a dog. Now, is there any- thing special he’d like for breakfast? Her- ring on toast with marmalade, maybe, or a chicken liver omelette with parsley?” “What’s eating you anyhow?” inquired my husband, puzzled. “Oh, nothing,” I chortled. ‘“ Nothing. In fact, the only thing that seems to be eating around here is that dog.” Roy delivered me a queer look, then bent his gaze to the pup who was watching him, steadfast. “ Ain’t women funny, Buster?” he asked. Buster curled his long pink tongue inside his mouth with a bored yawn. It seemed as if he was agreeing. In fact, the two of em were getting thicker than a day labor- er’s sandwich. As for me, I felt about as essential as a petticoat to a flapper. Choking, I left the table. If. Time toddled on. Our little friend had become an estab- lished member of our happy home. Every day he would tag me, listless but dutiful, around the house, parking under the bu- ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. reau while I made the beds, tripping me up.as I commuted from the kitchen stove to the ice box—following me with about as much affection as a sheriff does his pris- oner. But, oh boy, the change that took place in that canine when Roy’s horn honked over the lots! No matter where he was, no matter what he was doing, at that clarion call he would jump to life like he’d been kissed by a bee and streak through to the back door to welcome his master. Then, as I coolly went on curling my bob or basting the veal roast, I would hear wild demonstrations of mutual affection from the back porch that made little stabs prick through me — Roy’s caressing mur- murs, the pup’s low whines of joy, the slow scratch of Roy’s fingers along the flea-fur- rowed spine. Then the two of ’em would come through the kitchen where I toiled, the pup wriggling at Roy’s feet like a harem dancer before the Sultan. And Roy would address me very pleas- ant, and ask was Buster fed that noon, and on what, and didn’t I think it was time he had another bath, and wasn’t it cute the way Buster always came to meet him? Sometimes Roy would kiss me, the kind of kiss you would hand your great-aunt Belinda as she arrived, bag and baggage, to spend a couple of months at your home. That kiss had about as much warmth in it as the English Channel in February. It chilled me down to the heart. And always the hoot of that home-com- ing horn, and always that darn dog, run- ning with his soul in his eyes to meet my husband at the door. One day I couldn’t bear it no more. It was beginning to get on my nerves. It ir- ritated me like a sore tooth. You can stand it just so long, and then something’s gotta be done. At half past five, fifteen minutes before that home-coming horn would be honking its heraldry, I inveigled Buster to my clutch by means of an old soup bone, Grabbing him firmly by the scruff of the neck, I hauled him, wriggling and yelping, up the ladder to the attic. This was nothing more or less than an air chamber that run the whole length of 5A = comic os = _ —_— JOOKS.