The Argosy, Vol. 84 No. 2 — page 123: what you’re looking at

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

SOME DOG. 305 “ Certainly. We might even do better than that by you. Our exchange mem- bers may know another broker who will sell outside. That’s often done, you know. It’s possible that we’re carrying some stock for some one who wants to sell it. I'll be in the office by half past nine, nine o’clock as a matter of fact. I’m start- ing right away.”’ “T’ll be right down,” Bruce announced, and hung up the receiver. After it was all settled and done, he began to have the misgivings. He had paid out a thousand dollars on a very slight intimation of a chance to multiply it. All told, he was not sure that his own impatience had been more responsible than his judgment. He watched for Mr. Wheelock’s arrival at the bank. He hoped that the cashier would be early, that he might cance! the order if Wheelock advised it. But Wheelock was half an hour late. Bruce lost no more time in getting to him. ‘“ Mr. Wheelock, did you hear the story that’s going around about American Chrome?” he asked. The cashier frowned. Then, “ Yes,” he said slowly, “‘ I heard there was noth- ing to it. I wouldn’t load up with any of that stuff if I were you.” ‘To Be Continued. ) AIN’T the grave of a human per- son, mister; it’s a dog’s grave,” a passer-by, seeing my curiosity, paused to inform me. I had stopped in my walk along the little suburban side street to inspect, just inside a picket fence, what looked like the neatly rounded and well-kept grave of a child; for it was certainly, too short for that of an adult. Then, stepping closer and peering over the pickets, I had read on the clean, white-painted head- board, about and over which a honey- 8 ARGOoSsY neighborhood, evidently, explained it. AWilliam Alfred Corey suckle was growing, the carefully though clumsily lettered, ““In Memory of Cap- tain Bright.” ‘ Well!” I was commenting to myself, “the captain must have been a short man. Queer place to plant him, too, in a private back-yard.”’ But the passer-by, a resident of the It was a dog’s grave and Captain Bright had been his name. Certainly. ‘““Old Newt Meaney lives there,” my informant went on, indicating the big, COMMICOOOKS (C@)