Argosy All-Story Weekly — "Sea Marauders" — page 63: what you’re looking at

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

NOT FOR PUBLICATION. charmingly, with glistening eyes, of his glorious homeland, of the splendors of its capital, “But about Chihuahua?” I suggest- ed cautiously. “They will never, never take Chi- huahua. Here—’ he picked up a long envelope bearing a foreign stamp. “Here is why they shall not!” The craving to possess the informa- tion that was in the missive must have shown in my eyes, for Salvadore Men- dez drew it back dramatically from my outstretched hand. ‘“ But—it is not for publication. Di- plomacy is another word for silence.” Suddenly he lowered his voice solemn- ly and said: “ The walls have ears. Traitors are on every hand. But— you may be assured—no rag-tag swarm of scarecrows will take Chihuahua.” He tapped the envelope significantly and winked a knowing eye. ‘“ Secret information—from very high sources.” His thoughts, apparently, drifted from the subtleties of high diplomacy and he dropped the letter, quite casual- ly, into his wastebasket. It later proved to be an advertisement for greaseless soap. URING the crumbling of what- ever administration it was that he represented, I lost sight of Mendez. A string of out-of-town as- signments had taken me off my old run, and upon returning I’d been stuck on police, which kept me pretty well cooped up in the pressroom down at headquarters. One day the city editor rang me up. “Here's a night assignment,” he said. “Slide into a pair of white flannel trousers and run out to Mrs. Seymour Gratfield’s lawn pageant. The big boss has an idea we ought to give ’em a calumn or so— No, nothin’ doin’— You're elected the official butterfly, and believe me, son, you'd better be an eye- witness, too.” The minute I saw Mendez hovering around Sallie Logan, I knew he was © 485 in love. Somehow, those things reveal themselves. He was buying her ginger cakes from a striped tent called Ye Olde English Cook Shoppe. Mendez, I observed, was merely dallying with the sweets; but Sallie ate hers with a good appetite. When I came up Mendez nearly pumped my hand off and it looked for a moment as though he might embrace me. Sallie, whom I had known always, looked at me calmly with her bright biue eyes, and said: “‘ Hello!” That was the one thing that’ pre- vented me from getting maudlin over Sallie—those eyes. They were like her father’s—old J. D. Logan, who was the principal stockholder in the Hand- some Panther Mine down in Sonora. But I'd seen them when they were soft and brooding; then, when I’d go off my head they’d become merely bright and practical again. It was because of the mine in Mex- ico, I judged, that Logan had made the acquaintanceship of Mendez. The three of us wandered around the grounds and talked. “ Mexico is the land of sunshine and flowers, of poetry, and love, and music,” Mendez said expansively. “Its possibilities haven’t been touched yet,’ Sallie remarked, in a businesslike tone. ‘‘ For instance, the hardwood lumber industry. Given a good concession, adequate military pro- tection, and some decent system of transportation—” Sallie had a head on her! Mendez nodded gravely. “ That is what I have always claimed,” he said eagerly. “Any country that could produce La Paloma must have a noble people.”’ “You have the blood of Castile, of course, sefvior, but four-fifths of your population is mongrel; mixed blood, Spanish, Aztec, Yaqui, Maya—” said Sallie gently. “Pardon,” interrupted Mendez quietly. “I, myself, have a bit of the Aztec strain,” —_ « ae .* = 2 os Ste ~. — comiicr ooks. co SE ene ~ Ee f ah hy. ~e.