Argosy, Vol. 111, No. 1 — page 182: what you’re looking at

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

172 watery-eyed, malarial, yellow-faced river- man; he was a good worker two days a week, and the other five days he wished he was rich, or he was recovering from a high- lonesome, or went up the bank somewheres, to sit around till his wife was better- natured and wouldn’t talk so fast and much and according to her nature. Blowe wet MoHane’s whistle long, cas- ually, and ee and plied the prod, as the saying is, telling the little man that he ought to know better than to take so much ‘sass’? from his woman, and en- couraging him in the idea that what Mrs. MoHane needed was a right good beating up, same as a naughty kid has to be whipped, every so often, to make it be- have. He talked out loud, and he gave his other customers many a hint and many an idea as to the proper treatment of people who didn’t mind their-own business as regards the Slough Landing whisky-boat. ‘“Now, when you get home,” Blowe pressed on the fuddled mind of his cus- tomer, “ you jes’ casually haul off and give your wife a belt on the jaw, and you'll find out it "ll make all the diff’rence in the world about bein’ peaceable around the little old shanty-boat!”’ He patted MoHane on the back, and, on second thought, he inquired: “Come on, boys! Le’s all have another reund! ” Ali hands lined up along the bar, and there were nine of them, eight on one side and one on the other. And just as they all raised the little glasses a shrill, feminine voice hailed from somewhere: “Theh! -That ll do! Hands up, gem- men!” Three or four glasses of precious liquor drepped upon the bar, and Chick Blewe turned and glared. He found himself loek- ing into the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun which was thrust through the little pert-hole in the partition between the busi- ness and living rooms of the shanty-boat Black Possum. ‘Hands up!” the voice reiterated. I'll let go!” The hands went up. Drops of nerve- shaken liquor rained down on some of the “Er THE ARGOSY. hat brims. Two or three grinned with sick- ly fervor, and the others were grave beyond description. ‘Now, then, Chick Blowe, cme that bar inter the outside! ” Chick Blowe hesitated an instant, and the muzzle straightened till he could look down the whole length and see twelve buck- shot at the bottom, and the powder beyond was not imaginative. Then he climbed. “Git down on yo’ hands and knees, Chick!” the voice ordered. ‘IT don’ have ter!” Chick exploded. ‘No danged wo—” A charge of buckshot tore off his leather boot-heel and scraped off half an inch of skin besides, judging by the feelings. Chick dropped on his knees and clasped ue hands in mental torment. “On your hands, Chick!” the voice or- dered. He dropped forward wonderingly, and found himself with his face over the weigh- ing machine platform. “Theh! That’s fine!” the voice cried; and then added: ‘“ Yo’ white man, with the wash collar, git out theh and give Chick a right good kick; and don’t be easy like! Kick him a good ’n fer me! If yo’ spare him, I got a scatter charge er birdshot in this yeah ol’ shotgun, and I’ll plumb yo’ the hull ounce er No. 10’s, ’cordin’ as yo’ stand!” ‘Yas, sum!” the man cringed, He swung his leg back, but he was ner- vous and almost lost his balance. He tried again, and kicked. Chick Blowe’s head hit the scale, and it rattled. ‘“ Nex’ feller, theh!”’ the voice said. “‘ Ef yo’ don’ kick harder ’n that, I’ll shore plasteh yo’ good!” The next man kicked harder, and the two darkies, who came last, were ashy with fear as they gathered themselves to kick with greater vigor than any who had pre- ceded them. Chick Blowe yelled, begged, would-have. jumped up, but the muzzle of the gun and the assurance of buckshot at twenty-five- feet rarige held him to his post. ‘Once mo’, all around!” the woman or- dered relentlessly, and when the second series had been pulled off she ordered the GomiGcboo ©) S (@