The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 77: what you’re looking at

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

TWELVE A WEEK SHORT. It was Bob Whitlock, Arthur got up with a minutes of twelve.” Arthur’s best man. jerk. “Say, Bob,” he asked, ‘has the postman passed yet?” “T didn’t hear or see him. Here, get into this coat. Everybody’s arrived. Um-m-m-m —you look as if about two more weddings would send you to an untimely grave. But ——there goes the march.” Arthur drew a long breath, pulled himself together, steadied his somewhat wabbly feet by holding the banister rail as he de- scended in Bob’s wake. The little cottage was fairly bulging with guests down-stairs. A row of camp stools had been set along one wall of the hall, narrow enough without them. Arthur bowed solemnly as he passed some of his best friends. Just as he reached the middle of the distance to the dining room where he was to join Eleanor and lead her to the .improvised altar at the rear of the back parlor— “Pf-f-f-i-i-it!” blew. Arthur started so that he nearly upset a stout lady balanced on one of the little chairs. He begged her pardon. She laughed. The postman was all of half a block away. Arthur reached the side of his bride. “How do you like me?” she asked, since he failed to comment on her lovely bridal array. : “Why—why—all right,” he stammered, absently, his ears straining for another sound of the whistle. He would rather have waited; but Bob and Edith Holcombe, the bridesmaid, pushed the happy pair forward. An instant later he was standing before the Rev. Jere- miah Blakeford, who was slowly reading: “Wilt thou love her, comfort her—for- saking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?” “Pf-f-f-i-i-it!” Arthur forgot all about the answer, listen- ing for the sound of the footsteps on the rch. “T will,” softly prompted both Bob and the minister at once. “Yes—I will,” Arthur mumbled. He wished Mr, Blakeford would read less so- norously. The postman’s whistle No, the postman hadn’t been in front of . the gate! He couldn’t have been. “T, Arthur, take thee, Eleanor, to be my wedded wife,” he was repeating, almost 451 word by word, after the clergyman; “to have and to hold!” “Pf-{-f-1-1-it!” Arthur’s start loosened his grip on the bride’s hand. She had been resting in that clasp just enough so that her hand dropped to her side. They got together again. The postman was nearer but not yet here. Steps were passing the house—passing it! Were they the postman’s? Arthur would have given an extra five dollars to the min- ister for the privilege of turning his head. But he was putting the ring into the minis- ter’s hand. “Pf-f-f-1-i-it!” It happened as Arthur started to place the ring on Eleanor’s finger. There was no mistaking the sound. It was three doors past the house at the very least. The ring fell from his clasp. Bob made a quick move to stop the rolling thing with his foot. He kicked it under a heavy book- shelf. Edith Holcombe giggled into her hand- kerchief. A snicker sounded from the seats immediately behind the happy pair. Elea- nor was blushing furiously. Bob got up from fishing out the ring with the cane one of the guests handed him. A horse and wagon clumped by, slowed, stopped. Bob’s face was very red. Arthur gripped the ring firmly; Eleanor hooked it with the proper finger of her left hand. And— ‘“Pf-f-f-i-1-it!” A pair of well-shod feet were clattering up the steps. Some one was taking the mail. Either Arthur had been mistaken, or the postman had had to come back with something missed. Was it Mor- rison’s check? “With this ring I thee wed, and with all my worldly goods——” It would make an awful difference as to the amount of those worldly goods, if— Arthur suddenly realized that he was through. The Rev. Jeremiah Blakeford was through. Eleanor was looking at him in a way that—oh, yes, he must kiss her now. He did it fervently. Everybody started to rush him with handclasps and congratulations. If only some one would tell him whether that letter was from Morrison! If only they would let him get to Mrs. Jangreaves to inquire! But, as he found himself bobbed into Mrs. Jangreaves’s presence, he saw that nothing of moment was upon her mind save the fact that her daughter was at last taken from her for better or for worse. CORMICLOOOKS (C@)