The Argosy, Vol. 61, No. 4 — page 52: what you’re looking at

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

610 It had been his intention to stand in the doorway of the Waldorf - Del- monico, and dramatically proclaim his news. Usually at his entrance there was a pause in the diversions, and every eye was turned toward him; for he was a leader of the camp in a way, the settler of most disputes, the one to whom the rest looked up to on account of his edu- cation and talents. Accordingly, he had felt that this would be the fitting and psychological moment to make known the grim tidings with which he was charged. But to-night, for some reason, his ap- pearance did not create the usual flutter of interest. Scarcely a single man turned his head. All of Lame Creek which was not gathered about the faro- tables seemed to be engrossed with a tall, slender young man, a stranger, who stood at the farther end of the bar, closely hemmed in by a curious throng of auditors. Hart hesitated a moment; then, de- ciding that-the occasion was not yet ripe, and that he needed more of a spot- light for the effective disclosure of his intelligence, somewhat sulkily pushed his way to the bar and demanded a drink. ‘Which is it?” questioned Dan Groesbeck, with a jerk of, his head to- ward the shelf whereon stood his stock in trade—two big demijohns labeled respectively ‘Slow Death” and “ Sud- den Death.” Hart was seized with an inspiration. “T guess I’ll take ‘Sudden Death,’ Dan,” he said; then, as he filled his glass, he added, raising his voice: “Ves, I’ll take ‘Sudden Death.’ It seems, in a way, more appropriate, after what has happened.” There was no reason now for him to complain of a lack of attention. Out- side of the peculiarly significant tone he had used, the fact that Hart had changed the tipple he invariably affected was sufficient to draw every glance in his direction. Even the impassive faro-bank dealers halted their monotonous flipping of the cards and raised their heads. “What is it, judge? What’s gone wrong now?” queried a dozen excited voices. THE ARGOSY. Hart, having his audience safe, how- ever, waited before gratifying their cu- riosity to drain his glass, and set it back upon the bar. Then he throng. ‘“ Boys,” he said, “ Uncle Billy Burke has passed in his checks.” “What?” “You don’t mean it?” ‘’ How did it happen? ’”’ A shocked and startled chorus met Hart’s declaration. Scarcely a man there had enjoyed more than a mere bowing acquaintance with the old re- cluse; but he was the founder of their little community, the opulent owner of the Gladys B.; and the news of his sud- den demise affected them all pro- foundly. “Yes,” the lawyer nodded back to the ring of dismayed and incredulous faces, “it is so. The old man died in my arms not more than an hour and a half ago. You know how weak those spells of coughing always left him. Well, he had a particularly severe one this afternoon, and, failing to rally from it, passed out. Luckily, I happened to drop over that way on my road down from the mine, and thus was able to be with and soothe him in his last mo- ments.” There was a brief silence when Hart had finished—a brief period, while the men let the startling news slowly soak into their intelligence; then some one in a low voice asked the question which was uppermost in the thoughts of all: ‘“And who, now, will be the owner of the Gladys B.?” Before Hart could answer, the Whiffet, a rat-faced little individual, wearing his hat on one side, and: always very much in evidence on all public occasions, interposed a smothered ex- clamation. Wriggling back through the crowd, he seized upon and dragged for- ward the young stranger standing at the end of the bar. ‘* Jedge,” he apostrophized Hart, with a wave of the hand toward his con- fused and blushing quarry, ‘here’s turned to the breathless ' some one that I calkilate has about ez much interest ez ary one else in this here information you’ve just been dis- seminatin’.”’ COMICLOO (©