The Argosy, August 1914 — page 103: what you’re looking at

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

NOBODY LOVES A LOSER. “No man can say that,” the physi- cian returned. “ She wants to see you —that is why I had you brought here. But she shall not see you unless you are willing to do now, at the extreme moment, what you should have done months ago.” * D’you mean marry her, doc: “That is what I mean. And I will take the liberty to add that it might mean to this young woman the differ- ence between life and death.”’ “Why, say, doc, that’s what I been tryin’ to get at,’’ Butch declared with- out an instant’s hesitation. ‘Sure I want to marry her. Th’ poor kid, here alone widout any of her folks! Now kin I see her, doc? ”’ >) CHAPTER XXIII. JACK DECIDES. Durinc the night the rain ceased and the stars looked out. Jack, step- ping to the kitchen door, cocked an eye aloft. “A fair day ahead, Butch,” he proclaimed. The other occupant of the kitchen stopped in his-restless promenade for a moment. During the night they had passed together there had been little conversation between them. Jack, sympathizing with his companion’s state of mind, had done his best to cheer the other. But the Butcher, who had perhaps never known what it was to be afraid for himself, was in a state of complete funk. It was of the girl he was thinking, of Vesta Dawn, who had become his wife before dark on the previous day. For the thousandth time he began: “D’you tink, Jack—”’ “It’s all right, I tell you. Worrying isn’t going to help any. She’s in good hands.”’ The Butcher subsided into a rock- ing-chair, his chin on his breast. . The women were busy with the doctor at the other end of the house. Mrs. Leedy’s Henry was happily sleeping, 93 oblivious to these strange happenings. Sam had returned to training-camp on assurances that he was more of a hin- drance than help in the circumstances. Jack lifted the stove-lid and threw in a-stick of wood. The range fire had been kept alive all night for the heating of water, and the temperature of the kitchen, despite the open door and windows, was that of a Turkish bath. Neither of the men appeared to notice it, however. The clatter of the iron lid aroused Horlock from his abstraction. ~ He started to speak, hesitated, and then impetuously unburdened his mind. “Say, Jack, you’re a better man dan what [ am,” he began. “ You been white to me t’-night, an’ I want to say dat I know it. I ain’t so tough but what I know when a guy’s square wid me.”’ “That’s all right, Butch,” Jack re- turned, glad nevertheless to have the subject diverted from that other which during the long watch had worn on his nerves. ‘“T done you dirt, old man,” Butch went on. “ Dat last fight we had at d’ Athens Athletic Club—it wasn’t on de square, see? You was doped.” “T know all about that,” Jack told him. ‘ Forget it now.” “Tm goin’ to tell Sam Levine about that,” the Butcher insisted stoutly. “T told some folks you had a yeller streak, Jack. I knew ‘twa’n’t so when I said it. I’m sorry now. “But I’m goin’ to tell Sam Levine how I swung it into you about that fight’ An’ I’m goin’ to tell him some- thin’ else. I’m goin’ to tell him how you handed it to me day before yest’- day, and that you're a better man to meet the champ than what I am.” “T wouldn’t do that, Butch,” Jack said. “‘ What’s the use? ”’ “ Becoz he’ll put you up against the champ ’stead of -me,’ Horlock ex- plained. “You cud trim Monk Reilly. And Sam’ll take you back after what I tell him. ATI I ask, Jack, is that you keep me on for sparrin’ CORMICLOOKS (C@