The Argosy, Vol. XXV, No. 3 — page 55: what you’re looking at

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

THE LAST WAGER. A crisis in the affairs of the Carson family—The desperate appeal made by a distracted mother—An episode in a mining town of the West. A £2 WELVE years,”’ sighed the woman; ‘‘ twelve years of toiling and struggling, and now you are sweeping away the earnings of that long, hard time z ‘‘ Be quiet, will you?’’ interrupted the man, as he lolled over the bare table. ‘‘I earned the money ; you’ve nothing to do with the disposing of it.”’ ‘“ I’ve nothing to do with it? Great heavens! Who toiled by your side all those years, worked in the claim day after day, washing and ironing for the miners by night, so that we might pay off the debts? Look at those hands ;’’ and she stretched them out, red and rough, in the lemon light of the oil lamp. ‘‘ Look at them. Thirteen years ago they were soft and white, the hands of an Hastern schoolgirl. Then you came along. Great heavens, what would I not give to wipe out all those years since then ! What would I not do to be back where I stood that night I took up with you—to stand free to choose all over again!’’ She covered her pale, drawn face with the toil reddened hands and groaned. ‘I guess if you were free to choose you’d do the same thing over,”’ gruffly retorted the man. ‘‘ You had restless blood in you, and it was bound to show itself. You were not satisfied with the sameness of the life in Mill- town ; you were eager for change ; you thought the West would be broader, and I was a Westerner. You were ready to fly from home rule, and were only too glad to get away. You did no more than other women have done—juniped from the frying pan into the fire—and now you are always crying about it.’’ ‘No, Iam not always crying over it, Fred, but tonight I cannot keep in; it is the last straw. I thought you were gambling heavy, but was not sure. NowI know. Afterall these years of toil, that you should wager all your savings—let them fly away from you into the pockets of that stranger. You know what he is—every one knows what he is—a vampire that sucks men’s lives away, the lives of their children, and then, I suppose, he laughs over it. Why should I not cry? How many years have I dreamed that my boy would be able to attend school in the East ; get out of this hotbed until he was man enough to know what todo. You know how I saved in hopes he would be able to go home to grandfather this fall : you know what store I set by the plan, and now—now there is nothing left but the shanty and the claim. I cannot help the lad now. I cannot work as once I did. I cannot and will not take in washing again. I am not strong enough, and even if I was, what would be the use? I know where the hard earned dollars would go a Comicsook (C@)