The Argosy, Vol. 84 No. 2 — page 115: what you’re looking at

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

THE GILDED TRAP. Once more Bruce needed physical brac- ing against a mental shock. He steadied himself by leaning a second on the mud- guard. Then it slowly permeated his brain that the fellow still stood with the expectant smile on his face. Bruce thought an instant. He was not accustomed to giving tips; his goings and comings had not hitherto taken him where men expected them. Then he suppressed a gasping “‘ Oh!” of comprehension. He pulled out the two one-dollar bills, peeled off one, and handed it to the burly man. The man muttered a thank-you, and clambered onto his car. It was all over; another dread emer- gency had not arisen at all. But Bruce resolved never to be caught short of cash again. Such shortage held too embarrass- ing possibilities for a man of— Oh, yes, he was a man of an entirely different sort from the one who, three days ago, had stood and decided that he might as well spend his last nickel for car-fare, since his next ride was likely to be a free one in a patrol-wagon. He was a different man all around. He was a man who could give dollar tips. He rather wished he had given the fel- low both dollars. Anyhow, he would have to get Wheelock to cash a small check for him yet to-night, since there were the two maids to be tipped in the morning. A different man! He was not a poor, fresh-air patient for Jessie Wheelock to treat kindly. He was to be counted, and she gave evidence now of counting him, as one of her regular acquaintances, her friends. In fact, there was no use denying that she was flirting with him just a little, and letting him flirt back again. Of course it was nothing more than flirtation. And yet—why not? And the thought of Ellen Randolph stabbed him. No, he would not prove himself one of those cads who change their loves as soon as their circumstances improve a little. Ellen was a good, fine, loving woman. She should share his good fortune as she had been willing to share his poverty. 297 Only—did she really want to share it? Would she know how to share it—how to live the new life which he was beginning, which he intended to keep up? Ellen in a nifty little motor-boat; Ellen in a taxi; Ellen moving about such a home as this! Oh, Lord! No, he wouldn’t allow himself to think about Ellen that way. It was unfair, dis- loyal. He was not going to show himself a fool whose head got turned by a little money. He would never desert Ellen. But, for a man on the crest of pros- perity’s wave, he spent a very uneasy night, wondering just what he was going to do with Ellen before and, still more, after marriage. Certainly her absurd re- grets for a chicken-plot on the edge of an ash-dump were about the limit. And yet, wasn’t it particularly the sort of thing she was cut out for? And it certainly was not the sort of thing for which he was made. He had found his sphere, the place to which he belonged. He couldn’t afford to get mar- ried, anyhow, for several years. When he did marry he wanted enough to make a real home—such a home as Wheelock’s. He was still pondering these things when motor-car and subway had got him and the cashier to the bank again on Mon- day morning. They upset him in his work throughout the morning. He came very nearly giving a man an extra ten-dollar. bill in the hour he spent in the teller’s cage. He smiled when he thought what a catastrophe that would have been—once. Back at his books he pulled himself to- gether and made some headway for an hour or two. Then, half an hour before lunch, he became conscious that he was about to become the center of something of the kind of absurd sensation his new clothes had caused on Saturday. Adams had come back from some er- rand to the teller’s office. He paused a moment to whisper to. Travis. Travis whispered to Beecham. Both were glanc- ing at him occasionally. Then Meyer came through on his way to lunch. Gomichbook (C@)