Argosy, Vol. 117, No. 3 — page 73: what you’re looking at

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

e AN OUTSTANDIN’ ACCOUNT. | O8D I show her, “ there’s only seventy dollars been—” The woman takes one glance at the card; then she boundsgover to Flanagan. “ Michael Flanagan,” she says, lookin’ at him hard, “ how is it that—Oho!” she exclaims suddenly. ‘‘I see! Why, you big bum!” she almost shrieks, wavin’ her finger in Flanagan’s face. ‘“ You—you crook! You took the money from me to pay that bill—and you never done it! Cap- tain,” she tells the lieutenant, “ regularly, every week, I gave this big loafer ten or fif- teen dollars out of his wages to pay that bill, and he—how much does he owe?”’ she asks, turnin’ to me. “ Four thirty-eight, thirty-two,” I tell her after consultin’ the card. “ Very well!” she says, her teeth comin’ together with a click. “ You'll get your money—every cent of it! Out of his spend- in’ money,” she explains, pointin’ to Flana- BALLADE OF gan, who, for all his size, is tremblin’ like a little kid that’s about to be spanked. ‘‘ Just come to see me,” she tells me, ‘‘ twice a month, after he’s been paid, and I'll have the money for you. Oh, you—you—” She can’t think of a word to call Flanagan. “Tl fix you—later!” she promises, shakin’ her fist at Flanagan and rushin’ out of the station-house. The lieutenant covers his mouth with his hand, but it doesn’t hide the smile that’s in his eyes. “ Patrolman Flanagan,” he says, “this charge of yours—” “Withdrawn!” bawls Flanagan. ‘“ But if this little shrimp don’t get out of here,” he growls, steppin’ toward me, ‘ he’ll have a charge to make against me—for assault and battery!” I break all records gettin’ to the “L” station. Twenty-three eight-six my first day’s work as a collector netted me, which I'll say ain’t bad at all—for an amateur! OLD FRANCE H! Life went well in olden France, And every day seemed an April day, When belle and beau tripped through the dance, Light of heart in a youthful way. Bright were the ladies in fine array; They asked for love—and nothing more; Life was a song, a lyric gay, Back in the days of the Pompadour. High was the spirit of old romance— A kiss meant something more than play; > A Louis gave his lass a glance, And a winter’s night was a dream of May. “ Caprice! Coquettes!” I hear you say; “In such frail love we set no store!” But are you and I as true as they, Back in the days of the Pompadour? For love of a maid one drew his lance, And swift the price his foe would pay; The jester’s smile or the fool’s advance Was cause enough for a fearful fray, For passions then no man could stay. Yet “Flirt!” and “ Fraud!” you whisper o’er; But would we had lived, I ‘often pray, Back in the days of the Pompadour! ENVOY. | Princess, as we grow old and gray, I love to think of those times of yore, Dreaming that somehow we are astray, Back in the days of the Pompadour! Charles Hanson Towne. (€() TOO nn) S C (©