Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 18, 1925 — page 110: what you’re looking at

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

260 “J thought I heard a flivver barkin’ out here some place,”’ he said; and he was right, for a small battered touring car of the well- known American make was chugging in the street before the Hotel Astor. In the front seat sat two natives clad in gaudy red coats and caps of the type fav- ored by minstrel bands. Both uniforms were grimy and somewhat the worse for age, but their wearers sat stiff-backed, eyes straight ahead in the full dignity of their positions as servants of the king. “ Pretty soft, eh?’ Ammon chirped as they clambered into the rear seat with their guide. The journey was both speedy and brief. With a great clattering of machinery and a constant br-r-ring of the horn the flivver sped down the main street, scattering play- ing native children before it, for a bare hun- dred yards, then veered up a narrower street on two wheels and came to an abrupt halt before a circular-shaped hut, larger and more elaborately appearing than its imme- diate neighbors, A sign above the entrance read: King’s Palace. Visitors Welcome. Don’t feed the animals A number of natives with spears and red coats and caps—but sans trousers—sprang to attention as the visiting delegation pro- ceeded inside. Here, as soon as their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, the two white men discovered-themselves in a huge, circular-shaped room, the walls of which were draped with native tapestry of woven grass, brilliantly colored. The earthen floor was covered with rugs of a similar con- struction and to their right a low plat- form piled high with skins of various kinds gave evidence of being the kingly bed. Di- rectly in front of them, in a chair of Amer- ican manufacture, upon a still higher plat- form, with his back to the opposite wall of the hut, sat his majesty the king of Kiwyourrani. He was a pudgy, fat little king. His short, thick legs were incased in white linen trousers; his ample chest was haphazardly buttoned inside a short, vivid scarlet bell- boy jacket, the front of which was a mass of glittering medals in varied shapes and ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, sizes. Atop his broad head rested a papier- maché crown tilted at a jaunty angle and at least a dozen strings of glittering beads hung from his thick, black neck. His feet and arms were bare and upon one fat wrist, among a miscellaneous assortment of na- tive bracelets, glowed the luminous dial of a cheap wrist-watch. He beamed good na- turedly down upon his visitors. ‘“Hot-dam!” he roared in a deep, fog- horn voice. “ King say hello,” explained the wizened native, who was evidently the royal inter- preter. “Hello, king. How’s tricks?” Lew Am- mon bowed low before his majesty. ‘“Hot-dam! Oggle wu gussu loney slub?” returned his royal highness genially. It seemed to be a question. ‘“ Again please?” begged Lew, anxious to be of service. The king contorted his broad face into an irritable grimace and let loose a torrent of native words at the interpreter. “Wot th’ hell’s he raving about, do you s’pose?”’ Dynamite Breen turned anxiously to his manager. “‘ King—say—grind-box—where?” The worried interpreter spoke slowly to Lew, as though groping for a way to make him- self understood. He raised one black hand to his forehead, leaned forward a little and made a slow, circular motion with his free arm;~ * Grind- box,” he repeated ane: “ Where grind- box?” Ammon stared, a puzzled crease in his forehead. “ You'll have to do better than that, George,” he declared after a bit, with a shake of the head. ‘“ No sabe at all. Do you make him, Dynamite?” He turned to the fighter. ‘It’s all wop lingo to me,”’ Dynamite re- turned. The hard working interpreter tried again and his majesty added another barrage of royal reproof with no success. Suddenly the elderly native got the flash of a bril- liant idea. He ceased his gymnastic ef- forts and grabbing one of Ammon’s hands dragged him closer to the throne—so close that the medals upon the king’s scarlet chest were easily distinguishable. One, a button, Ammon perceived, read: “Keep Gomichooks (E@)