Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 12, 1927 — page 59: what you’re looking at

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

KERRY OF THE AIR MAIL. “This is a typographical error,” said Glenn, smiling. “It says I’m worth fifty thousand dollars, but it’s not correct. Twenty-five of it belongs to you, Betty.” “You mean that you are giving me twenty-five dollars?” asked Betty, with the light of banter in her gray eyes. ‘Twenty-five thousand. You were my mascot—-and my inspiration.” That afternoon Glenn escaped from the crowd while Betty slept, and spent some time going over his plane, testing the en- gine, the controls and rigging. “Til take a little nap,” he said. “ Everything on the plane is in perfect order, except the radio, and I’ve fixed that now. Are you ready for that flight to Shanghai?”’ Betty grew suddenly imperious. “T am not ready,” she replied. ‘ We’re starting back on the next ship to my daddy. 533 This radiogram came from him while you were out there. He’s the proudest man in America.” Late that afternoon a tall, blond young man and a pretty brunette were disporting in the surf at Waikiki. The young man gazed over the bright waters toward Diamond Head, and looked at the muscular figures of golden-skinned Hawaiians stand- ing erect on surf-boards and tobogganing the full length of long waves. He was thinking that a surf board could be far more treacherous than an airplane. He did not believe he’d try it just yet. The whole world was ringing with the praise of Glenn Kerry, but as that modest young man turned and saw his bride dive into a translucent wave and come up a smiling Aphrodite he was wondering how this goddess could fall for an ordinary young fellow like himself. THE END U U HOMESICK COWBOY PPETITE’S gone plumb to nothin’ An’ there’s no joy in a smoke, While folks are winkin’ an’ sayin’, “Ain’t he a sour-faced bloke?” - But they ain’t chaperoned cattle Over th’ grass with th’ breeze, As a good bronc did his steppin’ To th’ say-so of their knees. Though I am hearin’ folks laughin’, As they are playin’ th’ game; Though they are jokin’ an’ jestin’, I get no kick from th’ same, For, while I wearily wander With th’ harsh clangor of cars, Lord, I am hearin’ th’ prairies Whisper th’ low-hangin’ stars. I am grown sick of th’ city, Tired of all th’ mad throngs; Out where there’s room for cavortin’ That’s where yours truly belongs, But pretty soon I’ll be happy, For I am turnin’ from men An’ their fool talk to be knowin’. Herds an’ their bawlin’ again. Edgar Daniel Kramer. Gomichbooks (E@)