Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 5, 1921 — page 97: what you’re looking at

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

uf Lucy March Roy er Ye Ts heat was intense. The July evening was settling down over the dry, parched streets of the manu- facturing town, bringing with it a slight stirring of the sultry air. On the steps and on the dry ground before the one-storied shanties where the foreigners lived the children sprawled half-naked and dirty. Some of the men who had finished their day's work were smoking and some had already gone to bed on the floors. Here and there a few of the more inventive had laid boards on the limbs of the scraggly trees and were lying on them in the hope of catching a passing breath. From this vantage-point they velled to the boys and men of the night shift who came hurrying from the open doors to join their comrades on their way to the bridge shop. Michael Sullivan, a rivet heater, came straggling along with Nat Douglas and several other Americans who worked with him. They smoked their pipes and took their time as befitted men who were sure of their jobs. They quickened their steps for a few paces as Tim Brown, the head riv- eter, strode by them, but dropped back again when his huge figure disappeared around the corner. ‘Big Tim’s sure to get there on time. He’s the very devil for work and other things, too. Bet he’ll show the new super- imtendent where to get off.” Nat turned to Sullivan, whose brutal face got very red. 383 “T tell you I don’t like it,” he burst out, “ havin’ a kid for a boss. What ’d they mean, puttin’ a boy over us? We was working here before he was born. One of your Sunday-school boys at that. Too nice to even curse.” ‘Guess he won’t be long learning if he stays around you.” Nat gave Sullivan a iriendly poke in the ribs. “ Don’t see any- way why you hold that ag’in’ him. Why, he’s got nice yellow curls.” “Yellow curls be damned,” Sullivan an- swered. “I get him, I tell you, if he tries any funny business around me. Let them white-collared guys stay in the of- fice, where they belong, and not come around telling men what’s worked in a shop all their lives what to do.” “Never mind, Big Tim ‘ll get rid of him without any help from you. Do you remember how he chased that last kid out? Went after him with both fists when he discharged one of the men. ‘The manager didn’t fire Tim, either.” ‘This fellow ’d better look out, that’s all I got to say,” Sullivan answered. ‘““Why, he’s Sam White’s boy-—Sam White that went to school with us. Sam thinks he’s smart ‘because he went on and gat more learning while we went to the mill, but I tell you they’ll not put this kid over me.”’ ‘Well, I’m waiting to see the fun,” said Nat. “It ‘ll be with Big Tim when it comes, for you blow too much. The new comicbooks CO