Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 23, 1924 — page 135: what you’re looking at

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

THE SILVER KING. a man of the world, a believer in the doc- trine that money and not the finer things that Salambo believed in ruled the uni- verse. , At night, when the men came up from the galley, Salambo and the Silver King would sit on the hatch and chew the rag. The waiters, those gods of the white coats, would scarcely nod to them as they went into the glory hole counting the day’s tips— while Salambo, oblivious to the rest of cre- ation, would gaze at the phosphorescent moon and the stars glowing like agates in the heavens and the sea bouncing against the side of the ship. It was in this manner that he got his inspiration for those atro- cious sonnets of his which “ inspirate the sea.” Two days before the ship landed at Porto Cortez they sat on the hatch, the Porto Rican with a batch of his lyrical cre- ations under his arm. Come what might, the Silver King, as he sat on the hatch, had a roving premonition that Salambo was de- termined to read some of that poetry to him that night. “You want to hear some of my latest, Silver King?” Salambo asked, as he put the notebook on his knee to let the moon’s rays shine on it. “Say, lissen—cut dat stuff out, Salambo. You don’t know how to write poetry no- how.” ‘““Oh, what do you know? I was a cabin boy on a ship plying to China and Japan, with an Engfish captain. He was a man who wrote books. And he taught me how to read and write. He also wrote poetry. He was all right.” ““ A-ha—well, that’s fair enough; but you ain’t said nothin’ yet. You think that stuff I bin hearin’ you growl is poetry? Boy, you must be crazy. Ef you want to hear good poetry, read Paul Lawrence Dunbar. Ef thar was a poet in dis worle, thar was one.” “That may be so, Silver King, but in my country, in Porto Rico, you know, everybody is a poet. The man at the kiosk who sells you the lottery ticket, he is a poet.” “Well, come on and read dat stuff Le’ me hear you read some of dat poetry.” 293 In. a voice tingling with emotion Salambo read: ‘“ SERENADE. “T am going t6 show you travelers That go to the sea How the clouds run With the big storms and winds. “They look very soft Like a smoke they are, They go from the earth And they will come back. “That is what we see When we are going in a ship They are very soft And we cannot believe How they run so easy With a storm of wind. ‘““ How you like that, Silver King? That is a nice poetry, ah?” For answer, the Silver King took a red, large silk kerchief out of his pocket, wiped his forehead, spat, blew a mighty nasal blast, and got up. It was useless, he told himself, trying to get this barbarian to write decent poetry. For-fully ten minutes he stood, brows corrugated, staring at the much embarrassed, much bewildered Sa- lambo. ‘“ Boy,” he shouted, facing him, ‘‘ where you learn to write poetry at? Dat ain’t no poetry. Dat is mought-water. Mought- water! Dat’s what it is. You, you ’”—and he shook a finger at Salambo—* you listen to this—” Whereupon the Silver King, in his golden basso profundissimo that used to ‘ carry ” so well with the “ gals’ down in Mississip- pi, sang poetry to Salambo. “ Ashes to ashes and dust to dust Ef de booze don’t git you Why, de wimmin must. “ Hot dam’!” the Silver King exploded, doing a “ Charleston ’’—a Harlem negro dance quite impossible of description. ‘“ Dat’s whut I calls poetry, ma boy. Dat’s Mr. Dunbar hese’f! Him and I used to be like-a thet.” “Ts that so?” Salambo breathed, over- come by the inferiority complex. “You heard me.” “ Recité me another one, Silver King,” the other urged. ‘“ You are a real poet, man.” 3 ECOPMICGLOOO : 5 272) Voth . 2 sn ty wy) 4 ghey MAE f hg, Lit etm thy Si: is Ee , a uae , ‘= - ve ei wat Mead fig dpe i am Be eee? HAF COGN, VIR ey | 4 1 On a yy, it~- *W alt A yl A ‘| di Mat.