The Argosy, August 1914 — page 12: what you’re looking at

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

2 THE ARGOSY. finally plunged and laid his all on this single hope. Thus far he had not been disappointed. Why, then, should the gnawing worm of distrust find lodg- ment in his bosom? It was because—because—well, he could not define it. Was it because the Navigator, as his admirers termed him, was too much of a gentleman? He shrugged his shoulders, inserted a bone-dry cigar between his strong, slightly yellowed teeth, and as the foot- steps of a watchman on his rounds drew near the half-open door, yielded to the desire for human intercourse. “Have a smoke,” he offered. ““ Why ain’t you watching the fight?” “Fat chance I’ve got to be watchin’ fights,” grumbled the other, accepting the cigar and putting it in his pocket. “There’s time-clocks to be pulled every half-hour, ain’t there? And if there’s any way to fool a time-clock, | ain’t wise to it. But I sh’d think you'd be there with bells on.” “Me see a fight?’ Levine rejoined scornfully. “ For why would I want to see men beat one another up? I’ve got troubles of my own.” “Gee, ain’t that funny, though!” was the watchman’s comment. “ Here you could have th’ swellest seats in th’ house and watch them pound one an- other’s blocks off without it costin’ you a cent, and ’stead o’ that—”’ Levine waved the subject aside with a hand on which a large diamond glit- tered conspicuously. “ Now if it’s Chinese vases you're talking about,” said he, “that’s some- thing else again. A Chinese vase is— well, it’s a Chinese vase. But prize- fighting don’t excite me none after the door receipts are counted. I’d sooner watch a gang of men putting in a plate- elass window.” | The watchman shook his head in testimony of his total inability to read sense into such a statement. “This Navigator’s some fighter,” he remarked. “How do you pick ’em like that if you don’t like to see ’em fight?” “ Prize-fighting is with me a busi- ness, not a recreation,” the manager explained. ‘‘ Should a man know his own business? J see them fight when I want to find out what they can do, but after that—”’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘ But you're right about the Navigator being some fighter.” “ Say,” the watchman burst out, “ is that straight about him being in th’ navy?” “Sure it’s straight,’ Levine de- clared. He became enthusiastic on the subject of his find. “ Y’ see, it was like this. A friend of mine tips me off there was a what’s this — bluejacket, that’s it—a bluejacket on the Brandy- wine that was knocking them all cold. “Ever hear of ‘happy hours?’ That’s what they call it in the navy when everybody lays off work and the bluejackets box with one another on deck. Pound th’ face off one another, y understand, and call it happy hours. Perhaps that’s funny—I dunno. Any- way, that’s where Jack Garrett learned how to handle his fists. He was the happiest little happy-hourer of his weight in the whole navy. “When his time was up I was there waiting for him. We signed up with one another right off. And—there you are. I saw he had the makings, and | made him.” The watchman listened to this ro- mantic tale with flattering interest. In the satisfaction of his achievement, Sam Levine’s chest had swelled, his eyes brightened, and his mood became expansive: “ Some fighter—I guess he is,” he murmured. ‘ You hear me— he’s booked to be a champ.” “ Th’ boys was sayin’,” the watch- man remarked, ‘‘ that him and th’ belt- holder was goin’ to sign up if he beats this here Butch Horlock. Is that so?” “T ain’t saying it is, y’understand, nor yet I ain’t saying it isn’t,’ Levine replied. “ He’s good enough, ain’t he? After he gets a decision over Horlock, who is there has a better right to take ago at the champ? Ask me that.” connichooks (C@)