Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 12, 1927 — page 103: what you’re looking at

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

THE RETURN OF GEORGE WASHINGTON, man. I admire you greatly. If I had my life. to live over again, I’d marry a man exactly like you. Polly, don’t stay up too late. You’re really a sight. You—you look at least twenty-two! Good-night, chil- dren.” They murmured good night and watched her until the last battered slipper had dragged itself from view up the stairs. Then they examined each other. Larry presently arose and went over to Polly. With hands in pockets, he stood over her. “ Polly,” he said, “I don’t want you to think too harshly of me.” Polly did not raise her eyes. “T don’t think harshly of you. I think harshly of myself.” “You mustn’t. Your aunt is probably right. I can look at life, as she says, from onl¥ one point of view. It’s my worst shortcoming. I realize it. Tm wrong oftener than I realize. I don’t want to hurt you.” She burst out miserably: ‘‘ Why didn’t you tefl me not to go into the movies? You said at tea that day—the only time you’ve been near me—to take her advice.” “Why not?” he said stonily. With large, tearful brown eyes she looked up at him. ‘T’ll do just what you tell me to do.” “Why should you?” he insisted. Her eyes were suddenly wet. Impulsively she rose. She placed her hands on his shoulders and laid her cheek against his chest with a weary sigh. “TJ don’t know,” she whispered. “I —I’ve been so damned bewildered ever since this all started. I’m not used to ex- citement. I want somebody to tell me what to do. I adore Aunt Sally, but I—I respect your opinion more than hers—any- body’s. You aren’t bewildered or dazed. You know what I ought to do.” Larry put her gently away from him, but retained her hands. “ Polly,” he said soberly, “ nay life hasn’t been like hers. I’ve never had any time to play. I’ve had to be serious, and it hurts when people kid me about it. Believe me, you and she aren’t the only ones. F-want to be honest with you. I try my best to be honest with everybody. That’s why I’m TA . =~ et = ~ t - vise you, anyhow.” Polly averted her eyes; said nothing. _ “ Take her advice,” he went on. “ She knows how to play, how to get the most fun out of life. Stop worrying about my opinion and have a good time.” She glanced up at him brightly. ‘““ Go ahead with my picture contract?” It hurt him to say “ Of course!” but he managed it. And added, qualifying, in spite of his intentions: ‘ You can’t back out of it now, anyhow. You’ve publicly an- nounced it.” He released her hands and Polly said: “I think we’d better hit the hay. I’m ab- solutely a wreck. Good night, Larry!” She was half way to the stairs when Jason Ortola came limping in from the kitchen. His eyes were smoldering fires in their deep sockets. was compressed, as if with pain. “ Polly, your father is very ill. A com- plete nervous breakdown. After the ex- periment, he went into the basement and smashed his alcohol still into bits. Muller has been with him since. He has been only partly conscious for the last two hours. I ‘sent him to Hartford in an ambulance. Muller went with him.” “Tl start at once,” Polly said. The chemist compressed his thin lips and shook his head. ‘There’s nothing you can do. Muller will attend to everything. Your father simply needs a long rest, away from all excitement. That means a sanatorium for, I should say, several months. I think his alcoholism is largely responsible. It is a great pity. has an iron constitution, and will, without question, pull through. But he must be managed more carefully after this.” ‘‘T should never have ieft here,’’ Polly said in a woeful voice. “You could have done nothing with him. It was the excitement. Now, thank God, it’s over. The future will certainly be easier. What are your plans, Polly?” ‘“T haven’t any.” Ortola said: “I am going to Hartford to see your father has every possible attention. I must be in New York by to-morrow noon. JOOKS His slash of a mouth up in the air now. I don’t know what a eee advise you—and I haven’t the right to ad- ee He — EOMIE €om