Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 3, 1924 — page 26: what you’re looking at

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

816 place where even a glass of beer would befuddle your head. Before the gambling had gotten beyond the apportionment of chips it was quite evident to the guests that a new bully had come to rule in the Sundown Café. Al Boscoe, describing slow arcs over the mahogany bar with his wet towel, gave every evidence of studying the weight and brawn of the guests with the intent of socking them on the button for any nice offence. The shrimper, unfortunately, was not drinking and having finished his table d’héte with much noise, and wiping his mouth with a bronzed hand, he decided to pick out his own antagonist—which was the inanimate but clamorous mechanical piano. “ Ah Toucouton!” he sang drowning out the thumping chords of ‘‘ La Paloma.” “Ouand blanco la yo donne vo bal, “To ‘pas capable aller.” ‘“ Pst!” the new monarch of the Sundown hissed. The Cajan stopped. “‘ Wha’z wrong?” he asked. “ Don’t sing!” “ Vou don’ lak I should sing some more?” “JT just said two words,” Al rejoined quietly. ‘‘ Don’t sing!” The three gamblers laughed politely and there was a note of expectation in their voices. “Ts that something to laugh?” the Cajan asked in hurt tones, ‘“ that I, Philippe de Beure, can’ sing in this domiceel?” He raised his voice belligerently: the song gushed out: “Comment t’a vaillant gtabal? “ Toi qui Vaime briller?2” The barkeep shuffled across the floor, a flutter of pigeons at his feet. The shrimper continued in a sour, reedy tenor until Al Boscoe stood above him. Then he stopped. “Vou don’ lak for me to sing myself? I Philippe de Beure who has sing in this domiceel for many years passé. It’s an unfortunate!’ He picked his teeth with a bowie knife. Al Boscoe stepped back and surveyed his victim. The three gamblers stumbled to their feet, overturning chairs. ARGOSY-ALLSTORY, WEEKLY, ‘* Stand up, you yellow livered sea-cook! I’m goin’ to mop this deck with your blowsy carcass.” Cora Herzog, standing resplendent in the doorway with the glow of the sunset on her sky-blue wrapper and thickly powdered face, watched these preliminaries to the combat as a lady watching her knight going to battle. What Al Boscoe was going to do to that poor shrimper was glorious to think on. Little Herzog, too, popping his head into the room watched with a pallid, fright- ened countenance. Probably this was to be the first of a long series of justifiable murders in that café. But half an hour more and he would be ready for his journey to the tomb in the palmetto grove. But in half an hour—his brain could follow that train no longer for something had happened. The Cajan, in response to the bouncer’s invitation to stand up, left his chair in the manner of a rattler leaping out of mesquite. His blade lashed, and to the eyes of old Herzog it was a very conclusive murder. But for some reason or other—nothing short of witchcraft—the Cajan leaped directly into the extended fist of Al Boscoe. The knife clattered to the floor with a brilliant gleam, and the Cajan sagged after it, falling with his face in the sawdust. ‘When they sing of murder just sock ‘em in the button!” Al Boscoe announced, returning to his bar. Old Herzog held up his hands in despair. Yes, it was beyond the shadow of a doubt now, he was to spend the rest of his life as innkeeper there with this ferocious brute of a flatboat man as his barkeep. Whatever chance he had had before to discharge him was gone now. He might rid himself of the beast by some other method, but discharge him—there was no discharging a man with a kick like that in his fists. ‘Let him lay!” Cora Herzog said as her guests surrounded the prostrate Cajan. “Hell come to in a minute. Throw a jug of water cn him. That’ll do the trick. I suess he won't bother us no more with his singing. On with the piano there!” | Someone immediately put a coin in the slot and «La Paloma” was repeated tri- umphantly. The innkeeper looked at the sun. It was 1 A COMmMICHOOOlks.com