The Argosy, August 1914 — page 136: what you’re looking at

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

126 eagerly conning society sheets tossed aside by American tourists, he had followed his uncle’s arduous road to social eminence and licked his lips at the revenge which he promised him- self. All his wanderings, he told himself, had that revenge as a reason; every bit of knowledge, which he picked up he looked upon as something that made him better qualified to wreak it. And now that he had given himself ten years of probation and allowed his uncle ten years to consolidate himself in the life that he loved above all else on earth, he thanked his stars for - the thousandth time that he had had the patience and fortitude so to wait— that he had not, while yet a boy, de- nounced David Grelthorpe and pun- ished him before the stolen millions had become the magic wand wherewith to realize his pet ambition. “Most vengeances,”’ soliloquized the youth as he walked past St. Paul’s Cathedral, ‘ consist merely of one big sword-thrust that lays the victim out with scarcely any pain. How much better, from the victim’s point of view, to suffer that way than by the sort of vengeance I contemplate—not one sword-thrust, but one thousand pin- pricks. ‘The pin is mightier than the sword!” The sally pleased him so much that he repeated it right out loud, to the surprise of several passers-by. “On to vengeance!” he added. “On to America!” Whereupon he fumbled through, his pockets and found that he possessed an aggregate of about three pounds sterling. “Whew!” he muttered. “ That makes New York and vengeance look a long way off!” But Roland and worry were not in the habit of hobnobbing. One hour later he emerged from a chop-house in the Strand, fortified by a meal of chops and ale and ready for anything that London might have to offer. ‘Let me see,” he mused. ‘‘ To-day THE ARGOSY. is Tuesday—the Mauretania sails for New York to-morrow. Perhaps I shall be lucky enough to find enough for my passage on her; perhaps I shall have to sink to steerage on a slow boat —but, anyhow, a mysterious some- thing informs me that London will this night provide thee with thy passage money, Roland, my boy.” He strolled across Trafalgar Square, through Piccadilly, into the aristocratic streets of the West End, smoking a cigarette and observing the life of the world’s greatest city with a lazy in- terest. In this way the hours passed until the night was well along, and Roland, coming to a grand mansion, found a ball in full swing. Strains of dance music floated through the windows to the street; be- fore the door a crowd of chauffeurs, coachmen, footmen, and nondescripts, with a sprinkling of policemen, sought to catch a glimpse of the dancers en- joying themselves on the other side of the portal. As Roland appeared on the scene the big front door flew open. A man, evi- dently impelled with great violence from within, shot out like an uncouth missile, slipped on the top step of the short flight leading to the street, and rolled head over heels to the sidewalk. The door was slammed shut. ‘The crowd, which now included Roland, gathered @bout the apparition. It picked itself up and gazed about with a’ quizzical smile. It was a man, dressed in ragged and motley garb and in dire need of a shave. But he seemed perfectly at ease. “Concise,” he muttered, “‘and to the point. No frills, no red _ tape. Bravo! Ejection, if practised at all, should possess one leading characteris- tic. It should eject.” He turned to the crowd quite con- fidentially. “You are fortunate in having seen what I consider a classic among ejections,” he vouchsafed. _ Nobody could think of anything to say. They stood about, grinning. The man who had been propelled so violent- COmMMICLOOokKs (C@