Argosy, Vol. 118, No. 2 — page 60: what you’re looking at

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

. Am: =~ Soy ta +. a Te: 4 * ee: 4 , - sf £ hy _ ¢ i, i“ P Be | By e oe — ad oo / 4 i UGH SPAULDING knew there was something up when he saw Devil Downey coming along the lake shore, with his powerful body rolling as though to the movement of a boat’s deck and his cork arm swinging as stiffly as a dead man from a gibbet. There was al- ways something up when Devil Downey took the trouble to leave his tumble- down house on the cliff. Spaulding had not lived a year on the shore, in a fish shanty, without finding out the habits of his neighbors, even if he did not hobnob with them. There was an iron hook at the end of the cork arm. Without tangible reason Spaulding hated that hook—hated it as much as he did the little black eyes of its owner, Jim Downey. But then Spaulding was a nervous man with a grouch; so nervous that only the fact that he stood six feet four in his stained and battered shoes made his grouch respected. They pretty well left him alone, all of them— Tite Garneau and Downey, Bat Marble and Tom Strong, and all the rest of the fringe of humanity that lived outside the moral pale of the Lake Champlain village of Presbury. Devil Downey came up and stopped, and his thin lips cracked in what he undoubted- ly intended for a smile. Spaulding nod- ded, with a grunt of greeting. It was a lowering, thick day, with a sky that meant squalls before night; and Spaulding had let himself go the past twelvemonth until the weather could swing him down into a mood in which he was little short of dangerous. He felt as black as the clouds over the Vermont shore line. “Hello, neighbor!” said Downey. His voice was charged and surcharged with haughtiness. ‘‘ Going to be bad on the water to-day!” “Yes,” agreed Spaulding. “Tt ll clear to-night.”” He threw a con- firming glance along the horizon. ‘“ But they’ll be a sea running ana they may be wind.”’ <4 Yes.”’ Downey drew out a pipe and expertly filled and lighted it with his one hand, gazing meanwhile at Spaulding’s sloop, the Vixen, which lay at her moorings a few rods offshore. ‘Want to make ten dollars with your boat to-night?” he asked. ce No.”’ Evidently Devil Downey had not ex- pected immediate assent, for although he blinked at the directness of the refusal, neither his voice nor his manner changed. ‘““T kind of need a couple of hours’ help ” —one eyelid flickered—‘ and no risk to the man that helps me.” “No,” repeated Spaulding. “Td go as high as twenty-five dollars!” “T don’t want a job of any kind— to-night or any other night.” The visitor considered this a few mo- 210 (EO) OOK =) a (E@)