Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 17, 1924 — page 35: what you’re looking at

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

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE. the dotted line with a stubby, black-nailed forefinger. “ Sign, and let’s go and have a bottle of fizz to celebrate.” _ Hardwick, with a gesture that was half despair at the hardships to which he was committing himself, half disgust that he should have hesitated at all, threw down the pen, which rolled slowly to the floor, leaving an inky trail all down the report. “Go to hell,” he said and almost ran out of the room. If, ONcE outside the office of Isaacs & Smithers, Hardwick walked at a swift pace up the street, kicking wrathfully at the empty tins of bully beef which littered the road, staring straight ahead, his lips moving © as he rehearsed the conversation he had just had with Isaacs, thinking of all the things he wished that he had said. In some way he felt unclean, and the fact that he had rejected the shady propo- sition made him was no great comfort. Presently he came to the Royal Hotel— a barn-like structure built of galvanized iron—and started to climb the rickety steps leading up to the sfoep. Then he hesitated, and sitting down on the lowest step slumped over in an attitude of despair. His prospects were discouraging and, as he considered them, his strength seemed to flow from him and he felt slightly nause-— ated; he even considered returning to Isaacs and offering to sign the report. Why couldn’t he have taken their word as to the value of the property? Miss O’Brien was nothing to him and by refusing to sign he had not helped her in any way. They’d find some one else to do it—there was no doubt of that. As it was he had helped no one—and specially not himself. The sun was very hot; he was tired, hungry and thirsty and, having nowhere else to go, he leaned back and, closing his eyes, sought temporary relief from his troubles in sleep. And so he did not notice the small man, with a bristling red mustache which drooped sadly over a large mouth, who came out of the hotel and stood looking down at him intently, appraisingly. And when that man, with cat-like tread, slowly descended the 185 steps, Hardwick did not move, neither did he open his eyes when the little man sat down beside him. A Chinese laundryman shuffled by; a nasal voiced West Indian fruit seller, be- yond the bend in the street, could be heard calling his wares; a group of intoxicated natives, dressed in ludicrous imitation of the white man’s style, were singing across the way the tune they had learned at a mis- sion school, but the words were their own and blasphemously obscene. Otherwise the street was deserted—-a dead street in a town of dead hopes and dead ideals—for it was the hour of the siesta when white men, in order that they might have strength to gamble and drink a lot, and to work a little, rested. The little man edged up closer to Hard- wick, so close that his head almost touched Hardwick’s shoulder. He yawned widely, but noiselessly, and, pushing back his hel- met, disclosed a mop of tangled hair which was even redder than his mustache. Then his eyes closed, his mouth gaped; broken and discolored teeth showed behind the fringes of his mustache. His head drooped sidewise. He and Hardwick seemed to be two pals sleeping the sleep of men who have drunk well—but not wisely. But Red Head’s hands were not asleep—- far from it! They fluttered about Hard- wick; the long, agile fingers explored pocket after pocket extracting a cheap watch, a packet of letters, a few silver coins and a limp, empty wallet. Through half opened eyes Red Head looked disgustedly at his haul and at Hard- wick. Then, with a shrug, he returned the watch, wallet and letters, put the coins in his pocket and rose quietly to his feet. He was about to tiptoe noiselessly away when Hardwick’s hand shot out with light- ning rapidity, closed in a viselike grip about the fellow’s ankle, causing him to sit down very suddenly and very hard. ‘“*Lumme!” he exclaimed as his twinkling blue eyes met the penetrating, half humor- ous, half wrathful giance of Hardwick’s gray ones. ‘“Lumme!” he said again in tones of self- condemnation. ‘So you was awake hall of CORMICLOO S (C@