The Argosy, December 1905 — page 149: what you’re looking at

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

«HAM” ARDSLEY’S THEORIES. BY ANNA STEESE RICHARDSON. The story of a man who was down and out, with a real American atmosphere and dénouement. RDSLEY stared out from his hid- ing-place beneath the last Pull- man car and shuddered. Beyond the water tank stretched the immeasurable desert, a sickening white haze palpitat- ing above its alkali wastes. The man knew what a day on that desert’s edge meant—a pitiless official driving him away from the questionable comfort of the huge red tank, nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and nothing on which to rest his eyes save the merciless haze. and the penetrating dust which rose in tiny swirls to meet it. Even when the freight pulled in after dark, he would have only one*chance in a thousand to board her, for the train- men would be warned of his presence in this hell-hole of heat. Heavy footsteps crunched upon the cinder path. They were coming his way. Perhaps if he clung more closely to the brake-beam the trainman might not spy his long, thin figure. Even as animals are enabled by na- ture to blend into their surroundings, so did Ardsley’s oil-soaked overalls and coat merge into the greasy iron support on which he was stretched; yet the keen eye of the brakeman detected the pres- ence of the hated tramp. Ardsley saw that the game was up, and, ashamed and trembling, he crawled from under the car, only to be hurtled into the sage-brush by the toe of the railroader’s heavy boot. A laugh, distinctly feminine, roused him to action. With a sickening sense of despair he staggered to his feet and stood staring stupidly after the Sunshine limited, now a mere comet’s tail on the shining rails. Then suddenly he remembered the laugh, and wheeled to face a young woman whose’ beauty _ penetrated through dust-dimmed eyes to his very soul. A snug-fitting riding-habit of gray cloth, woven to shed even alkali dust, served to bring out the admirable lines of her girlish figure. A thick braid of rich, brown hair was coiled beneath her gray sombrero. Her face was oval, yet piquant, and the light in her gray eyes suggested wells of tenderness in her na- ture. Despite the heavy tan on her face and the firm grip with which she held her pony in check, she was not just the sort of woman Ardsley expected to see springing, like a Western Venus, from sage-brush and gray-white dust. She was biting her lips when he con- fronted her. “IT am pleased,” he said with elabo- rate politeness, “to have contributed, if only in the smallest way, to your amuse- “ment.” ‘The girl started so suddenly that her nervous pony fairly danced. She had expected instead a whirlwind of pro- fanity and had been regretting her temerity in laughing. “JT couldn’t help it,” she said half- apologetically. “ You looked so funny. You spread out your arms as if you were trying to fly.” “My wings were clipped long ago,” he said grimly. “Clipped pretty close, too?” she in- quired shrewdly, eying his tattered ap- parel. “ Fate has been a bit unkind,” he said laconically. “Fate!” she scoffed. “ Fate does not make tramps. It is laziness that does that.” “Thanks for the information, but it was fate, just the same.” “Are you hungry?” she asked sharply. “I believe I breakfasted yesterday morning.” Again she bent upon him one of her shrewd but not unkindly glances. “Well, there is a box here for our ° COMMICLOOOKS (C@