Argosy All-Story Weekly, November 12, 1927 — page 94: what you’re looking at

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

568 reachin’ for somethin’ as soon as she sees me, givin’ me blame for it’s not bein’ six o’clock. But Sandy stands by. “He had to come up through the en- gine room hatch to be gettin’ here now,” he tells her, lively. “ And we had to shoot him out o’ the tube,” I adds. “Ts that your story?” she wants to know, sharp. “Shelp me, girl,’ Sandy says, and I chips in: “ ’Struth.” The blue eyes she’s got with the dancin’ things in ’em take Sandy in for awhile, level-like, then they run me up and down. Somethin’ in the way we stands, kind 0’ holdin’ onto each other, account o’ the way we come up, must hit her sort o’ funny. She laughs, the way she does when she tosses her head back and makes it sound like bells is ringin’ some place. THE iv) ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Then she comes down to a smile, and to bein’ wistful, as I likes to see her most. She says, noddin’ a little, as if she’s com- mendin’: “It’s a good story, at that, and you couldn’t have gone clear through the col- onies, at the White Horse, or you couldn't 0’ thought it up.” Sandy goes blowed, and there’s pain in my face which she sees. “Come here, Slim,” she says. on.” I makes it up to her, ready on chance for a hard-a-dive, but she’s like the captain with that whimperin’ kid, gentle. ‘““[’m givin’ you a kiss, Slim, for the pair of you gettin’ here at all,” she says, and she does. Then she hands me orders. “Take station in the kitchen, second cox’un. I'll think about rabbit, if this able-bodied gives me the straight 0’ how many pints it really was.” END “ Full U U THE LAST CHANCE W ASHIN GTON and his army Driven fro m hill to vale; Hunger, rags and the harpies Of doubt as forces fail; Then Saratoga and Yorktown And a freeman’s lusty hail. The war zone of the spirit Within your breast, or mine; The poison gas and gunfire, The sag of a reeling line— Then up, for blood of manhood Is richly red as wine. The last chance always threatens Where battle’s motif thrums; Then is the time for banners, For screaming fifes and drums; While life remains to rally, The last chance never comes! Olin Lyman. ee comichbook (G (EO)