The Argosy, September 1915 — page 75: what you’re looking at

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

ONE-CYLINDER SAM. flooring, and again his body rocked from side to side. Then, abruptly, without waiting tor the end of the music, he became rigid. “Why not?” he demanded. There was nobody to explain. ‘“Once more, why not? Now is the time for any grain of sense that may happen to be in my nut to speak up, or forever after do the oyster act. I wait—TI still wait. J hear no answer. Therefore I have no sense. There- fore—why not?” He went forward quickly, cast loose from the mooring -buoy, scrambled aft to the engine, cranked it with a nervous jerk at the fly-wheel, and headed out into the river. For half an hour the launch ran down-stream, passing numerous craft that were obviously bound for the place of the whirling feet. Sam maintained a close watch upon the procession. He was looking for a particular vessel, and eventually he be- lieved he sighted it, for with a nod of satisfaction he altered his course and bore in toward the cluster of islands that included those of Mr. Witherbee, Mr. Davidson, and their neighbor vigi- lantes. Now he extinguished his lantern— he never bothered with port and star- board lamps—and proceeded cautious- ly into the little archipelago that stood aloof from the other islands in its ex- clusiveness. Somewhere, probably in a dark shadow near a shore, lurked a patrol-boat. It was nearly an hour later when the dimly marked hull of the boatman’s launch, still devoid of any light, made its reappearance in midstream and laid a return course for the blaze of lights that beckoned hospitably to the island- ers of the St. Lawrence. Opposite the hotel, Sam chose a new anchorage, farther from the shore and comfort- ably remote from that occupied by any other craft. He relighted his lantern and chuck- led as his glance fell upon a roughly ee? 289 wrapped bundle in the bottom of the boat. Seating himself beside it, he ripped off the paper and brought to view a series of articles that caused him fresh mirth. First came a tiny mirror not much larger than a pocket-glass. This he propped beside the lantern. Then came a brush and comb, and after them a collar and a soft-bosomed, spotless white shirt. He handled the linen gently with grimy fingers. Next he produced those three un- mistakable garments so persistently de- manded in the lower left-hand corner of certain cards of invitation—‘ eve- ning dress.”” And then a pair of shin- ing pumps. For a minute he studied his bearded visage in the mirror, a scrutiny that ended in a grimace. ‘If I took these chinchillas up to the hotel the bouncer would toss me out on my neck,” he muttered. ‘ But I guess I can trim ’em up some. What did I do with the scissors? ”’ Fumbling among the remnants of the paper wrapper, however, failed to produce the weapon he sought. An exclamation of dismay escaped him as he again inspected his beard. “Some of its simply got to come off,’ he told himself sternly. ‘ We'll try a knife.” The knife was dull and rusty, while the beard was tough and tenacious. He groaned at the first stroke and barely suppressed a howl at the second. It was a two-handed proceeding, one set of fingers being employed in grasp- ing a tuft of hair, while the other set, grimly gripping the knife, essayed the function of severing the tuft at a point half-way between the tip and the roots. For several minutes he toiled in agony. Then nature weakly yielded to the pangs of pain and he tossed the knife overboard with an anathema. ‘“ And still people go to beauty-doc- tors!” he growled, as he surveyed with disgust the meager results of his work. “T’d singe it down a bit if I was EOPMICLOOOKS (E@)