The Argosy, Vol. 61, No. 4 — page 48: what you’re looking at

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

606 I done my best. I asked up an’ down, but no one else ever heard of him. There’s a William Walker at 58, but he said he hadn’t been out o’ the house all evening, and didn’t know nothing of no baby-kerridge. He was quite ugly over it.” Mrs. Scales cast one eloquent look at her husband, and turned to the express- man again. “Thank you, Watson,” she said. . am sure you have done your best.” The expressman, missing the emphasis on the personal pronoun, knuckled his forehead in acknowledgment and de- parted, and the procession wended its way silently up-stairs again, Mr. Scales this time bringing up the rear. ‘Well, George,” said Mrs. Scales in devastating tones, when court had once more reassembled in the study, “ what have you got to say for yourself this time? ”’ Mr. Scales did not appear to have any- thing to say for himself at all, but looked helplessly at his inquisitor. “To give—” cried Mrs. Scales, gesticu- lating with outspread hands—"to give Mrs. Butterworth’s baby - carriage—her fifty-dollar baby-carriage, and your own umbrella—a seven-dollar umbrella—to a ie * THE THE ARGOSY. man you knew absolutely nothing about —a thief—and go jaunting away as cheerfully as possible on a street-car!”’ “Cheerful?” muttered Mr. Scales under his breath. “All that I can say, George,” con- tinued his wife, ‘is that I am surprised. Aren’t you, Mr. Butterworth? ” “No,” replied Mr. Butterworth bit- terly. “I can’t say that I am. You see, I’ve known Scales for a long time.” Mr. Scales darted arf angry look at his friend. “All /’ve got to say is—’” he began, when his wife broke in. “The less you say the better, George,” she said in a resigned tone. ‘“T think the best thing you can do is to go to bed.” : Mr. Scales looked at his wife, at Mr. Butterworth, at Mrs. Butterworth. In all their eyes he read condemnation and disapproval. Lastly, he looked at the baby. As his gaze rested on the placid coun- tenance of the infant, the recollection of all that he had suffered on its behalf surged up in his breast. \ He stifled an imprecation, swung on his heel, marched out of the room, and banged the door loudly behind him. IMPOSTOR. By DOUGLAS PIERCE, Author of “‘ Two Tickets to Tuckerton,” ‘“‘ The Shaft of Light,”” “‘Chasing Rainbows,” etc. A Western story of a mine worth millions whose ownership was hedged about with mystery and made a target for crime. CHAPTER I. ‘THE BIG WEASEL.” = De by gosh!” With an involuntary.gasp, Hart drew back from his hasty examination of the wasted, inert figure upon the couch. A few moments before, while careless- ly loitering down the trail, he. had chanced to notice that the little cabin back among the pines, where “ Uncle Billy’ Burke maintained a hermit-like existence, presented a more than ordi- narily lonely and deserted appearance. Its doors and windows were closed, and no smoke was issuing from the chimney. Recalling that he had not seen the old man about for a day or so, he decided to investigate. Iailing to receive an answer to re- peated hallooings and knocks upon the door, he had then, with apprehensions fully aroused, forced an entrance. But, even prepared though he was by the silence and the sight of the relaxed, helpless form upon the bed, he recoiled with a distinct shock from the marble cold of the brow upon which<he laid his EO OO (C (©