Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 2 — page 30: what you’re looking at

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

180 “Whoa, Hazel * Whoa, there!” But the car was no obedient, jogging mare. It did not know its master’s voice. So with Sannigan aboard it went on back- ing cown the street. ‘“ He’s got a six-shooter!” some one whis- pered hoarsely; and the derisive crowd of a moment before hiked for cover. Sannigan grew impatient at the car’s ob- Stinacy; also thirsty. “Oh, have it your own sweet way,” he ejaculated good-naturedly; and, leaving the car to steer itself, took another swig. The car crashed into a telephone pole and stalled. Sannigan, agreeably surprised, climbed out. He had left the fire chief’s pipe behind, but he still toted the bottle. ‘Hey, there, Ben Crabb,” he roared, “throw away that slush of yours and take a nip of concentrated kick.” He caught Ben and fondled ‘him lovingly, while Ben, conscience-stricken, tried vainly to cajole him into going home. “TI got lots of money,” declared Sanni- gan. “ Rose Marie don’t need to take in washing.. The tads don’t need to take in washing. Hazel Dawn, my mare, she don’t need to take in washing.” His eye fell on a store window. “ Hey, you music-box - man,” he shouted, “send out a music-box to Rose Marie. . Best music-box you got. I'll pay for it. Put the ‘ Tipperary’ record on it.” He left Crabb, and went his way, chant- ing. Then he decided Rose Marie must !? Dawn he shouted. THE ARGOSY. He climbed out, dripping, and pulled the handle. Then he remembered he had to bank some money. He took one more swig, tipping the bottle far back. ‘‘ Ah-h-h!” he gureled. He drained the bottle, gripped its neck with both hands, flung it high in the air. ‘ Whoopee!”’ he yelled. From somewhere a long way off came a tremendous crash. Sannigan was hazily conscious that Main Street was strangely deserted. Could this, indeed, be Main Street? He went up and down, trying the doors, finding them locked and barred. Frightened faces peered out at him. He thought he saw a bluecoat dodge around a corner as he appeared. ‘This ain’t Main Street,” he moaned. “T got to get back to Main Street. I got to bank my money.” He wandered aimlessly down a side street, his head nodding again. At last he found the secluded shelter of the storm porch of the A. M. E. church. A church porch looked like a good, safe place to spend the night. He felt his wallet. It was still fat with bills. Then he fell down, and started snoring, and dreamed that he was listening to a temperance sermon, and Rose Marie was pinching him to keep him awake. III. SANNIGAN, waking from his jag, felt as he had never felt before. ‘‘ My stars!” he gasped. “I sure must have a new dress; but the dressmaker saw “have been drunk!” him coming and barred the door. ““T guess it’s a holiday in town,”’ mused Sannigan, discomfited. ‘* Let’s celebrate.’’ He sat down on the curb and nursed his bottle a while under the vague impression that it was one of the tads. His head nodded. It was bedtime. Rose Marie had often insisted on a bath before bedtime. He got up, staggering, glanced about, and plunged into Miller’s horse- trough. The cold water sobered him a trifle; so did the noses of two horses whose drinking activities his plunge had interrupted. He glimpsed a fire-alarm box—the fire- alarm box. Yesterday he had gone to heaven, as he pictured heaven; this morning he woke in the cther place. Yes, and St. Peter must have flung him over the battlements—and his head, assuredly, had hit the cinders, for it still buzzed. “Yes, I was drunk.” Then he corrected himself. ‘No, I wasn’t drunk—I was—I was—”’ He found no word in his vocabulary to describe his experience. He had attained new heights in intoxication. And, this morning after, he had hit new depths. He was the Commodore Peary and the Roald Amundsen of the jag. He had found the north pole of human satisfaction and ex- (C@) “S) ANGELO) (E@)