The Argosy, Vol. 84 No. 1 — page 133: what you’re looking at

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

THE BRUTE, THE LADY, AND I. was society’s prerogative and not mine. And if it came to a question of that, what after all had been his crime? It was not so much what he had done as what he might do. ‘“T don’t know,” I answered. not.” I heard her making preparations to descend. With growing misgivings I ran to the fire for a burning brand. Return- ing with this, I looked my man over. He had fallen face downward. With new surprise at his weight, I rolled him over onto his back. His face was streaked with blood, and I noticed that his right hand lay at an uncouth angle with its forearm. Alto- gether he was a ghastly sight. The girl came up behind me, peering fearfully over my shoulder at the fallen giant. “He is dead,” she said in an awed voice. She drew away from me as though through fear of contamination. “Tf he is,” I answered somewhat in- coherently, “‘ he has himself to thank.” “Do get water,” she cried. I ran down to the pond, recollecting somewhat grimly as I went how, but a few hours before, she had put the same request to Brute Flanagan. I filled my cap with water and dashed it in the big man’s face. Variable hu- man! A minute since I had been happy because I believed I had killed a man. Now I was conscious of a great relief to know that I had not. Flanagan’s great hulk stirred, his eyes ‘“T hope opened, he propped himself up on his: sound arm, and tried to put the other to his head. The hand dangled hideously. He looked at it in wonder that gave way to furious anger and hate as he saw me. ‘“Curse your soul!” he swore. ‘‘ You have broken my arm.” VI. Ir seems to be a principle of warfare that after as much injury as possible has been inflicted on the enemy individually, 123 at least, then it is in order to turn about end patch him up. This may not be consistent, but apparently it is natural. If Brute Flanagan’s claws had not been drawn, at least one was broken. while I had broken it, and in so doing had doubtless saved my life, yet now it seemed quite the thing to do to offer to mend it. But he would have none of me that night. His broken wrist must have pained him cruelly, but I question if defeat did not hurt him more. Bitterly he scorned my offer to set the bone, and had he accepted it at that time I very much doubt if he could have re- strained himself from assaulting me with his sound member. He flung aside, too, the timid offers of the girl, and strode away into the night as if to hide his shame. i Elizabeth Norcross returned to her aerie and I to my bed beside the pond. But not to sleep. I had run the gamut of emotions in the last twenty-four hours and, reflecting, could come to but one con- clusion. This was that, overcome whatever ob- stacle there may be before one, there is another beyond. Brute Flanagan as a menace no longer confronted me, hut Brute Flanagan as a sick man loomed . up as a greater burden. Dawn broke while I lay thinking. The hills loomed higher than ever through the cold mist that rose off the pond. The car hung like a great wasps’ nest from the oak with no sign of its occupant. Brute Flanagan sat by the dying fire holding his injured arm with his sound one and rocking to and fro with the pain of it. I hunted about in the brush and col-. lected pieces of wood that would serve as splints. These I whittled into shape and cut more cord from the balloon to bind them with. Returning to the fire, I saw Elizabeth Norcross was there before me. She was speaking to Flanagan and he was shak- ing his head in negation. As I approached they both looked up at me, Flanagan sullenly and the girl with CORMICLOOOKS (6)