Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 17, 1924 — page 45: what you’re looking at

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

THE SENTIMENTAL BLOKE. tably. ‘‘ Look at the mess I’ve got hinto hall through you. ’Eld hup a bloomin’ per- liceman, got hin Dutch with Burke an’ the rest—’cause I’m your pal—and then ’as to run like ’ell before I could horder another drink. And now I’ve got ter leave the dorp w’er’ I was makin’ a respectable living ’elp- ing meself to the spondulicks hother men didn’t want. Blast yer. But, blimme Yank: You can fight, an’ shoot—an’ ’ow it makes me laff w’en I finks of hold Burke’s face—an’ yer got nerve. So I ’as ’opes for yer. Hif honly yer wasn’t so bloomin’ par- ticular abart being ’onest and hacting soft. Oh, hell! I’m gettin’ soft meself! Come hon!” They went on, and Hardwick, his eyes having by this time become accustomed to the darkness, had no difficulty in keeping up with Ginger Dick; no longer dodged the black figures which seemed to material- ize out of the darkness, but which were only figments of his imagination. And so they soon passed beyond the con- fines of the town, passed the compounds where native laborers at the mines were kept like prisoners until the period of their contract had expired, and passed out on to the open veldt. “Y’m only sorry fer one thing,” said Gin- ger Dick after—for him—a long period of silence. ‘“ I'll miss her.” “Who? Your sweetheart?” “Naw! Ain’t got none. I mean my chameleon. I calls hit her ‘cause hits halus changing. I ’ateS’ women.” Hardwick laughed. “ Yus—I ’ates women,” Ginger Dick re- peated with some heat. “ They’re nasty, sneaky things. Halus wantin’ yer to pet em like cats, an’ hif yer stop—w’y, they scratches yer. Don’t yer hever take hup wiv no woman not w’il’ yer my pal.” “But you don’t mind my trying to find Miss O’Brien, surely,” Hardwick asked banteringly. “Her? Her as ’as the land Smithers hand Isaacs wants? Naw! That’s diff’r- unt. There’s a chance to make a pie hout hof ’er—hif yer ain’t too bloomin’ squeam- ish. , “Took hout, now. The road crosses a river ‘ere, drops sharp like. Though w’y 195 they calls hit a river, Gord knows. It ain’t got no water hin hit hand never ’as—’cept- ing wen hit rains. Hon the hopposite side there’s a plice we can stay huntil the moon comes hup. It’s a hold ut. The Pe- ruvians use hit sometimes.” “* Peruvians?” ‘“Yus — Peruvian Jews — though Gord knows hif they comes from Peru or hif they’re Jews. They’re—hanyway, an’ that’s the name as ’as been given ’em hout ‘ere. They sell rot-gut likker to the blacks, the perishin’ blighters.” “Thought you wanted to go into that business, Ginger?” Ginger Dick swore horribly. “You're too soft!” he exclaimed as soon as his wrath had subsided somewhat. “You believe hany bleedin’ thing you’re told.” They crossed over the sandy bed of the river, climbed the steep bank on the other side, and, a few minutes later, came to the deserted mine. Ginger Dick fumbled with the fastening of the rickety door of the hut which had once been used as living quarters by the owner of the mine, finally managing to open the door with much creaking of rusty hinges. “T ‘id some candles last time hi was ’ere. Light a match, cully, an’ let’s find ’em.” Hardwick obeyed, and in the moment’s flickering glare the hut seemed to be full of weird, menacing shadows. ‘Then, as the match went out, the shadows leaped “upon the two white men. In the pitchlike darkness of the hut Hardwick put up a stiff but losing battle against his unseen adversaries. They were naked, and their well-oiled skins made it impossible for him to grapple with them. Occasionally one grunted as, lashing out right and left, Hardwick caught him in a vulnerable spot. Ginger Dick, too, was fighting hard— and enjoying it. His pessimistic curses made Hardwick laugh, sounding strangely above the hissing breaths and the dull thud of hard fists coming in contact with hard flesh, and the patter of feet upon the floor of the hut. Neither men could get at their revolvers; CORNICLOO© (C S (C@