Argosy All-Story Weekly, January 13, 1923 — page 54: what you’re looking at

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

516 Dignified tones from the party of the sec- ond part. “So that’s how you feel, eh? Not tak- ing instruction from me, eh? Then I guess (ll have to breathe a little word to you that I been saving up for two, three years. A sort of distress signal, Horner, in the Grand Lodge of Erring Sinners of the World. A street number in Denver. Want hear. it?” Raucous vibrations over the wire. - “Oh, sure—sure it’s a lie. These stories always are. All the same, hadn’t you bet- ter take one more quick think about this dump-cart proposition? S’pose you do, Horner. G’ night.” Pelham put aside the telephone, relit his stogie, winked his good eye and observed: “In this@fppery world, my boy, never set up as a model of purity unless you wear cleats on your shoes.”’ Reflectively he added: you'll get those carts.” “T rather think The evening was yet young. There was time for one more stroke of business before bedtime. Steve hastened down Arapahoe Street and turned in at the office of the Boulton Weekly Pioneer, Moses Lambert, publisher; Dick Lambert, editor, reporter, business manager, and advertising solicitor. It was press night, and Editor Dick was on duty correcting galley proofs; a blithe young man whose eyes shone with the light of good cheer, in spite of the fact that his Jeft sleeve hung empty at his side. "lo, Steve,” said he, looking up. . “?’Lo, Dick. When do we go to press?” “ Going in a few minutes now, Steve.” “Print me an ad on your front page, will you?” Borrowing the editor’s pencil, Steve wrote: SERVICE MEN LIVE WIRES HERE’S JOBS SEE S. BROWN Pelham’s Barn, Boulton. *‘ Since when have you had jobs to lavish. around?” Dick Lambert derided. Steve told him about it; told him much more than he had told the Frazers; in fact, ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. told him all. Dick Lambert was a news- paper man, therefore a safe man to intrust with a secret. Moreover, he and Steve Brown were friends beside whom the late Damon and Pythias would have looked like mere nodding acquaintances, Having robbed orchards in partnership in their innocent childhood, they had nat- urally stuck together in the larger under- taking of cleaning out the Argonne Forest. Since then they had indulged in no joint exploits, for Dick had lost an arm to the Prussians and, shortly thereafter, his heart to Deacon Worrall’s pretty daughter. His eyes shone now with the old zest of adventure as he listened to his friend’s plan regarding the Frazer mine. “‘ Beautiful,” he declared, “ but wild. Can it be done?” “ Gotta be done. If I could do it with the Honeyman digger, I can do it with a mine. . Will you help?” “T suppose so,” the editor assented, ‘ al- though I’ve been jolly well warned by a certain party to shun evil companions if I want him for a father-in-law.” Steve grinned. “ All right. For a starter, print this ad.” He swung out into the street and saun- tered homeward. On his way through Elm Street he passed the home of the mayor of Boulton. At a corner of the lawn where there was a view of the mountains the mayor had built a summerhouse. There were people in the summerhouse to-night; and since the side- walk passed close by, their voices came clearly to Steve Brown’s ears. One voice said: “ There’s a lot of imag- ination in dyspepsia. I find it so in my practice.” That was Mayor Doc Hamilton. “All I can say,” spoke another voice, “ is that I haven’t had to take a tablet since that morning we drove up to the mine. I don’t even know where the bottle is. Do you, Arthur?” Steve walked on, feeling badly jarred. What were those buzzards doing, calling on Mayor Doc Hamilton? Why, the mayor was a prince and a gentleman, and the best friend the Frazer family had in Boulton. And he was entertaining Lutwell and Laird! CORICGLOOLKK