The Argosy, Vol. 84 No. 2 — page 71: what you’re looking at

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

JUST FOR THAT. Holt started as he turned his eyes on the speaker, a slender girl close beside him; he was not aware that he had spoken aloud. “You see, I know. either.” The face under the pert little hat was piquant rather than pretty, but it spoke, as did the slim figure it surmounted, of youth at its freshest and freest. Holt’s interest was aroused. “Oh, there’s some mistake,” he smiled, with an appraising glance too flattering to seem impertinent, ‘“ there must be a soldier lover or at least a cousin or brother whom you’ve come to bid good- by—” | “And God-speed,” appended the girl demurely, “‘ and weep down his neck and urge him to write and not take rash chances or drink unboiled water or forget to read the Testament that was his mother’s. Nope. There isn’t a soul. I’m here professionally.” The youth in khaki stared. ‘“ Professionally?” he echoed. “Yes. Dm ‘Doris Dean.’ Thank Heaven it isn’t my own name—wished on me by the city editor, passed along by my predecessor in office.” Then, as she caught the uncomprehending stare in his eyes, “ You don’t know me? Never heard of Doris Dean of The Morning [ntellt- gencer? Such is fame!” “J—I don’t seem to recall—” stam- mered the boy. “Don’t worry,” she counseled cheerily, ‘lots of others in the same boat. I’m here to write up the departure of the‘bold sojer boys’ for Fort Shelton. Got to get a good feature story out of it—sob stuff, tremolo stop, and all that, you know. If youll read the Intelligencer to-morrow you'll see. Captions like this: ‘ Gray- Haired Mother Gives Only Son to Coun- try ’; ‘ Bride of Week Bids Soldier Bride- groom Good-by ’; maybe you'll even fig- ure in it yourself as ‘ Lorn Lad in Khaki. None to Bid Him God-Speed as He Starts for Border.’ ” Holt was surveying her keenly as she I don’t belong, 253 spoke. Around them on all sides surged the crowd—officers in uniform, and the rank and file in khaki; wives, sweet- hearts, children, sisters, friends, there for a final glimpse of the troops ordered to the concentration camp and thence to the front. Each intent upon his own concerns, no one heeded Holt and the girl, who though in the midst of a close-packed throng, were practically as effectually isolated as if on a desert island. ‘““T wonder,” Holt said slowly, his eyes on the girl’s face, “‘ if you’re as callous as you sound?” The vivid face sobered. “No,” she said, ‘I’m not. That is, I wasn’t. It’s cultivated. When I first went on the Jntelligencer — uncle’s pull landed the place for me—they made me sob-sister to start with. Heaven knows why! I had to visit sick seamstresses in stifling tenements, abused orphans in the slum districts, mothers of criminal sons and suicide daughters, deserted wives with starving children—oh, I tell you it takes it out of one, that sort of thing! I cried pretty steadily the first six weeks— regular Niobe stunt—let my sympathies run away with me. Then I saw it wouldn’t do; I'd have to pull up. So I said to myself: ‘ Buck up, Ellen ’—” “Ellen?” her auditor interrupted, ‘“ T like that—loads better than the Doris Dean stuff. Doris suggests cheap novels and chorus ladies.” “It’s my own name at any rate,” pur- sued the girl. “ But, as I was saying, I told myself I’d be a fit subject for Matte-- awan if I went on wailing over things I couldn’t help, so I hardened my heart, took a stronger grip on myself, and now—”’ << Now?” | : ‘Now I laugh instead of crying. I’ve trained myself to see the humor of pretty much everything—except—” with an in- voluntary shudder, ‘“‘ except death. Dad and mother both died, you see. That’s why I’m Doris Dean of the Jntelligencer, instead of a normal girl.” CORMMICLOOOLK (C@