The Argosy, August 1914 — page 13: what you’re looking at

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

NOBODY LOVES A LOSER. 3 “Sure thing,’ the watchman agreed. He read a direct statement into the manager’s words. “ An’ th’ boys was sayin’ that him and _ th’ Butcher didn’t love one another any, neither. They said—” He hesitated, uncertain how far to repeat the myriad rumors that wing their way from training-camp. Le- vine waited for him to continue. “Well, they said there was a girl,” the watchman went on. “A eer that the Navigator and Butch Horlock was bet’ sweet on, and that th’ fight to- night would be for blood.” “A girl?” Levine repeated angrily. “What for talk is this? Who told you such things? ” ‘““T dunno, only you hear stories like that. Prob’ly there’s nothin’ to it. Fine weather we been havin’ this week, but she’s fixin’ for a storm.” The manager was not to be side- ‘tracked from the new line of thought the watchman had opened. Certain other vague suggestions he had re- ceived had given birth to the disquiet which marred his peace of mind. “What's this about a girl?’ he de- manded. “ First I'd heard of it. Who is she? What do you know about it, anyway?” “Well, I heard somethin’ from a friend of mine that’s doorman at the Buckingham Theayter,” said the other reluctantly. ‘Where ‘ Bung Voyage’ is runnin’-—you know. He says he’s seen th’ Navigator up there nights waitin’ around for this here skirt after th’ show. Why, he says he seen him only last night.” On the edge of an eapidelon. Le- vine checked himself. Instead, he in- quired with an offhand air: “ Did you hear what the girl’s name “was?” “Some fancy name—let me see. It was—it was—I got it. It was Vesta Dawn. Prob’ly her real name’s Ma- nue Gilhooley — you know how them things are. My friend says she’s a swell looker. Friend of Butch Hor- lock’s, too.” ‘The Butcher knows her, eh?” “My iriend—his name is Steve Brannigan—says it was Butch that knew her first. Then th’ Navigator got her away. ‘J least, that’s what I heard.”’ “And Jack Garrett was there last night?” ‘Course Steve might of been mis- took. Well, I got to beat it and go pull my cloek.”’ He departed, leaving Sam Levine to his previous occupations of rocking back and forth in_his swivel chair and jingling his fob seals. But the expres- sion of complacent contentment with which he had received his caller, had given place to one of troubled concern. Of a sudden the intermittent clamor from the ringside rose to new _alti- tudes. It seemed to beat and surge around the door of Levine's office as if clamoring for admission. Its long continuance hinted at an event of world- wrecking import. Levine glanced at his watch. Footsteps sounded in the passage, followed by a timid knock at the door. It was opened hesitatingly on Levine’s invitation to enter. A snub-nosed, freckled youth in a striped Jersey, frayed trousers and canvas shoes made his appearance. His manner was that of one who carries ill-tidings. “Well, Mac, how many rounds: Levine cried. “ Seven, sor,” replied Mac. His eyes shifted unsteadily under the other’s direct gaze, and he clung to the door-knob as if deriving moral support therefrom. “Seven, eh? I told him to let it go + 99 -eight or nine, but the crowd won't kick on seven if they were lively. Was it a knockout? ” “You may well say so, sor,” replied Mac with some show of relief at the turn the conversation was taking. “ Th’ Navigator is but just now com- ing around.” The effect of his last words on Le- vine was electrical. His air of com- S Gomichboo CO