The Argosy for May — page 178: what you’re looking at

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

AN She shook her head negatively. _“ Are you employed here, then? ” Again she shook her head; and, step- ping over to my side, she whispered in ~ ty ear these startling words: -““T am a prisoner in this place, Jes yourself,” “What?” I gasped. can’t mean that you—’”’ “Hush!” she whispered. “ For Heaven’s sake not so loud, or he will hear us. I came here as a boarder a week ago. I have been here ever since.” ‘“And do you mean to say that he makes you wait at table and do the housework?” I exclaimed indignantly. She nodded; and her eyes filled with tears. ‘“Why do you stand for it? don’t you leave?” I demanded. “IT can’t,” she replied, with an ex- pression that was pitiful. “I am a pris- oner here. I cannot get away. You, too, will find that you—” She did not finish the sentence; for just then Farmer Snookins entered the room, and took his seat at the head of the table. , “Bring on the breakfast!’’ he com- manded grufily. The girl complied with a submissive- ness that made my blood boil. She brought in three platters of corned beef, some stewed corn, and some bread and butter. “Sit down, both of you,” the farmer commanded us sternly. The girl seated herself obediently at the table; so did 1. There ‘was some- thing about our host’s manner which brooked no opposition. We ate in silence. After we had fin- ished, Farmer Snookins again addressed himself to the girl. ‘“‘ Go into the kitchen,”’ he commanded, ‘“and shell the peas for dinner. When you get through with them, you can darn my socks.” If she had been under a hypnotic spell, she could not have obeyed him more meekly. After she had left the room, he turned tome. — “What do you do for a living?” he inquired. “T am an artist,” I replied. ‘A painter, you mean?” “You ay Why ENTICING PROSPECT. 365 ce Yes.” “That’s good. Your talent will come in handy. My barn needs painting. That will keep you employed for the balance of the day, I reckon.” “But I am not that kind of a paint- ,’ I protested. ‘I paint pictures.” ‘4 My barn is a picture,” he replied grimly. “ Don’t argue with me, young man. You'd better get busy right away.” ‘Now, see here,” I exclaimed, sum-_ moning all my courage, ‘we might as well have an understanding right now, Mr. Hiram Snookins. I did not come here to work. As I told you in my let- ter, I came here for rest and quiet. I am paying you board, and I don’t in- tend to be treated like a hired man. I[ won't stand for it, in fact.” “Is that so?” he replied, without slightest trace of emotion. He went to the window and whistled. The six ferocious-looking boarhounds came bounding over the window-ssill. They looked even more powerful and savage by daylight than they had ap- peared in the dusk of the preceding eve- ning. They crouched obediently at his feet, the foam dropping from their cruel, dis- tended jaws, a wicked light in ‘their bloodshot eyes. “ Going to paint that barn?” quired laconically. “ Of course I am,” I answered hastily. “TIT was only joking when I refused just new. the he in- painting. barns. Where shall I find paint-pot and brush?” “In the barn,” he answered. “See that you make a good job of it, or you'll have to do it all over again. I don’t like sloppy work. You'll find a ladder there, too. Get along now.” ‘“ By the way, Mr. Snookins,” I said timidly, “I am sorry to have to inform you that I shall have to leave you this evening. I have some important business to transact in New York. Of course, I shall return here—when that business has been attended to.” : I looked at him eagerly as I said_those words. Would he fall for this none too subtle ruse, I wondered uneasily? “You will leave here when I get good and ready to let you go,” he answered gruffly. “I guess that important busi- EGORNICGLOOOKS (C If there is anything I enjoy it is: (CO)