The Argosy, Vol. 84 No. 1 — page 129: what you’re looking at

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

THE BRUTE, THE LADY, AND 1. steadying it from below, I gained the edge of the basket and swung myself in. I lashed the car securely to the limb, drew up the hauling rope which Miss Nor- cross untied, and slipped down the ladder more easily than I had gone up. ‘The car now hung inaccessible save by means of the ladder, for the tree was of such great girth that even had he the skill Brute Flanagan could not have got his arms about it to climb it. ‘‘ Now try it,” I said to the girl, proud, I must admit, of my work. She swarmed up the swaying ladder so much more agile- ly than I that I gave a spontaneous cheer. Remembering, too late, Brute Flanagan, I looked in the direction of the fire. He was on his feet, stretching his ae arms and looking at us. For the first time I got comfort out of the situation. “ Pull up your ladder and try to get some sleep,” I called to the girl. “In an hour I will be back with food.” She nodded brightly down at me. I set out for my snares with a light- heartedness that I would not have be- lieved possible an hour since. V. ONCE in the woods, my first step was to arm myself with a hickory club. If this was the paleolithic age, I must play the part. Events had proven, and there was no use denying, that man for man I was not the equal of Brute Flanagan. Calmly to submit to further punishment and hu- - miliation rather than protect myself as best I could would be sheer quixotism. I whittled my weapon to the proper balance with all the pride of the aborigine. I even pondered grimly on the comparative degree of hardiness it bore to Brute Flanagan’s skill. Yet it was entirely for purposes of defense, and I had no immediate desire to test it. I thrust it in my belt and went on to my snares. I had hoped to find another partridge. 119 There is no better eating, to my mind, than this toothsome bird; and I knew that at the best any game that I might find, roasted over an open fire, without salt or gravy, would make an unattractive meal for the girl. But the partridge snares were empty— had not even been disturbed. The birds had taken warning apparently from the fate of their fellow, Better luck awaited me at the rabbit traps, however. A poor cottontail had noosed himself and had been his own exe- cutioner. I tied him to my belt, for fear Brute Flanagan might find him, and pushed on fo the high hill I had climbed in the morning. The sun was setting as I had reached the bare ledge of rock. I wished the girl were beside me to see it. Even in our predicament she could hardly have failed to be delighted at the soft merging of gold into mystic blue. In this wide wilderness there was something reget undefiled, about the sunset. But there was work to do, and I must get back to camp before dark. First glancing about the horizon in the vain hope of some sign of the presence of man, I then collected a great lot of dry brush ~ and touched it off with the matches I had this time remembered to bring. As it burned I skinned and dressed my rabbit and broiled it over the hot fire. The woods were in semidarkness when it was done to my satisfaction. I threw more brush on the fire and set out for the pond, half-running, that I might reach it before darkness set in. As it was I believe I should have wan- dered from the path but for the flicker of light which I presently saw through the © forest. It was the camp-fire by the pond. I came out into the open to see the figure of Brute Flanagan, exaggerated by the fire to enormous size, pilmg on great limbs that gave forth more smoke than blaze. The great oak from which swung the car lay between the fire and myself. I stopped beneath it and called to the girl. ECOPNIGLOOOKS (E@)