Argosy, Vol. 85, No. 3 — page 121: what you’re looking at

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

“IT WAS WAR.” United States navy. He surely taught that pink-cheeked lieutenant a lot of Eng- lish not to be got out of any books pub- lished while Anthony Comstock was alive, or even since. Oh, it was lucky for Louie that, in peace times, you can’t commit treason against the United States government with your mouth. Even at that, I don’t know as he could have got away with some of the stuff he put across except in a very close circle of friends. And, although the kaiser and Woodrow Wilson were just then weeping on each other’snecksin warlike and peaceful peace notes, it wasn’t right to give the impres- sion that our navy, could be chased out of the sea by a properly manned and man- aged fleet of model sail-boats. Louie did that—as I’d heard him do it before; and he went on to pay his re- spects to all the other departments of the government in a fashion to have made the king of Siam wonder if it weren’t his duty to humanity to take us in order to provide us with a government, if not quite kul- tured, at least endowed with a faintly hu- man intelligence. If that pink-faced baron wirelessed half of Louie’s remarks to Wilhelm II, it’s no wonder the imperial government decided that no ruthless submarining could be so insane as getting mixed up in peace efforts with the half-witted, brain-softened, sen- ile-decayed defective Louie painted for Uncle Sam. It’s no wonder the baron softened to- ward us. He probably thought it would be a shame to waste bullets on the deadli- est possible spies from a hostile chicken- run. “Ts that true, Herr Corporal?” he asked of Rudy. : “About this here Power Squadron,” Rudy responded, “I ain’t never heard nothing in America. I wasn’t there long enough yet to be buyin’ me hundred- thousand-dollar yachts to play navy games with.” But by the time he had said this, the American girl had got from the corner of 463 the little room to which she had receded. She had planted herself squarely in front of Louie. Her cheeks were blazing and her brown eyes had turned. the color of good anthracite. ‘“Do you know anything about it, Vet- terchen?” Von Hilberstein asked her. ‘“About what?” she asked, with the craokle of fire in a pine board. ‘“ About this Power Squadron?” ‘““Power Squadron,” she repeated hot- ly. ‘“ No, cousin mine—I never heard a darn thing about it till right now. But I can guess a lot more’n I’ve heard. If this here boob’s a specimen of this Power Squadron outfit, I can guess he’s got the wrong steer about why it ain’t recognized by the United States navy. I can guess a lot better reason than he’s give. It’s because the United States navy ain’t so hard up for hospital ships as to be takin’ floatin’ bug-houses already loaded with loonatics even at a gift. It’s because the U. S. A’s little navy ain’t and never was no asylum for feebs, even though they might have the dough to buy their own floatin’ nurseries and hire their own nurses. ‘An’, while I’m talkin’, Herr Cousin Lieutenant Baron Heiny von Hilberstein, I’m goin’ to tell you these here ain’t no spies. The United States ain’t got no such system of spies as you Dutchmen, to be sendin’ suspicious reports about what the cop of Squeedunk Crossin’ ate for his dinner, mebbe — but the United States, when she needs a spy, c’n afford the few cents extra to get one what could tell a arsenal from his own big mouth.” Then she flashed her eyes back at Louie Hartmann. They were already brimming with angry tears. ““‘You—you an American!” she cried scornfully. “‘Oh— you big boob!—you big—boob! You—you big—big—”’ She broke off, sobbing hysterically to the exclusion of articulation, and dashed from the shack. And I knew a lot more about that little girl than I’d dreamed of, either when I’d heard her sadly unclassic English or when I’d first looked upon her CO DOOK AMUC C©