Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 5, 1928 — page 20: what you’re looking at

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

986 Bud Nichols admonished in an appar- ent aside, but loudly enough to be heard the length and breadth of the room. ‘“Cain’t you see we got comp’ny this evenin’? Ain’t you-all never had no instructions in ettyquette ?” “Naw!” Swede protested in a mouth filled mumble. “I’m jus’ an ignorant cow waddy what don’t know no better than to call food grub. When Bear Paw sends me up to feed the pigs, the on’y way you can tell me from them ts by my hat. Wait till my finger bowl’s brought in, an’ I’ll wash my hands in it. Trouble is, they allers sarve them things at the wrong end of a meal.” “By Jove!” the Nut exclaimed, as Anderson paused. “ Do you use finger bowls out here, really? I hope you chaps won’t take this amiss, but I was under the impression that things were a bit more primitive in the West. [’m afraid I’ve got rather a lot to learn.” “Vou have,” said Joe Maddelena, smiling thinly. “ Quite a lot. Don’t let nuthin’ surprise you, Nut. Yo’re apt to Varn a lot out heah you'd never have thought of l’arnin’ in yore ol’ Ken- tucky home. Satisfyin’ yore curiosity consarnin’ our usin’ finger bowls, how- ever, we don’t. “We washes our hands as well as our fingers, an’ sometimes we takes a bath. We’re a sort of hard-livin’ gang of hombres, an’ used ter dirty work. It takes the same sort of man to keep up with us.” “Oh, yes, yes,” the Nut accepted, nodding. “I quite realize all that. And I fancied Swede was rotting in raising the subject. That’s why I asked. As for work—almost any real work—er —manual labor, I mean, is apt to prove a bit messy, don’t you think ?” “ Sometimes,’ Maddelena nodded. “Veah, Nut—there’s been times when I thunk quite a lot. But I’ve found that ginerally speakin’ it pays a man ter keep his thoughts to hisse’f.” “Joe’s mentionin’ yore old Ken- tucky home reminds me ”—Mustang Reilley broke the silence that followed ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. Maddelena’s needlessly antagonistic words—“T reckon you kin play thet thar mandolin you brung along?” “Oh, yes.” The Nut turned to him. “T’m right fond of music,” Mustang declared. ‘“‘ D’ye know ‘ Sweet Ade- line,” or ‘There’s a Long, Long Tran *?” “ Both of them,” the Nut assured him. “T’ll show you after dinner if you like.” “Thet would be right nice, I reck- on,’ Mustang accepted, a pleased light waking in the eyes behind his range- squinted lids. He was the oldest of the Bar-Bee riders, with a bronzed, wrinkled neck and a leathern face. “Joe’s got a danged good voice,” he added. “T sing a bit myself,” said the Nut. “We can have a concert.” “Come along, then.” Paragonah shoved back his chair. ‘Me, I’m a coyote’s cousin when it comes to sing- in’. But I got big ears. We'll stow the Nut’s baggage an’ then he can turn loose his wolf.” The other riders rose. In the rou- tine of their lives the Nut’s promised performance offered a note of inter- est. Ten minutes later the pile of dun- nage had been transferred to the room he was to share with Paragonah, the truck had been backed under a shed, and they formed a group on the bunk house porch in the gathering dusk. The Nut uncased his mandolin and handed about a package of cigarettes. “What’s these?” Joe Maddelena a as the package reached im. The Nut named a popular brand in his silk, soft voice. ‘“‘ Take a ride in the desert,” he invited. Maddelena tossed back the pack, drew a sack and papers from a pocket in his shirt, spilled a little line of broken leaves on the paper, twisted it deftly into form with the fingers of one | hand, and closed the sack by jerking its string with his teeth. (e(0) oNOOLKS AAG (F@)