Argosy, Vol. 123, No. 1 — page 28: what you’re looking at

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

18 them, one by one, holding each in her talon- like hands and clucking her tongue depre- catingly at the dust, ‘“‘ Tchk, tchk, tchk—”’ When she had finished, ‘‘ Show me some more,” she demanded. Harrison scowling, wrenched out another box from the shelves and slammed it on the glass show-case. “ Tchk, tchk, tchk,” she clucked. “‘ Why, Mr. Harrison, those are size fourteen. You know my Erny can’t wear fourteens, Mr. Harrison—” Harrison whirled upon her with a signifi- cant sneer. ‘‘ Madam, he said, his voice quivering with wicked joy, “if your son’s got a neck like an elephant, is it my fault? If you don’t see what you want here, why don’t you go to a sporting-goods store and buy him a dog collar?” It was a splendid witticism. Harrison chuckled over it as the old lady left, speech- less with indignation. To other customers, many others, he had been surly or insulting of late, but never had he reached such heights as this. That he lost trade as his self-indulgence heightened his satisfaction. “¢ She’ll never come back,” he prophesied. ** Guess that fixed her!” Then he remem- bered that after this day the little old lady would have no store to come back to. To-morrow! With a guilty thrill he thought of the shop to-morrow, picturing it as he had seen other shops where fire had its way. | To-morrow! The very word had an awful significance that both frightened and intoxicated him. The business faced absolute failure. His methods had driven away all but a transi- ent trade, and recently both hotels, which furnished that trade, had removed from the block, giving way to clothing lofts. But he had kept the fire insurance paid up! He spent the evening at a theater, re- -tuming to the shop toward midnight and not until he had made a careful study of the street to be sure he was unobserved. His overcoat pocket concealed a candle. In the store-room was a great litter of broken packing-cases, excelsior, and paper. He gathered it into a heap and set the candle upright in the midst of it. It lacked only a match to complete incendiarism. THE ARGOSY. He was scratching the match when some instinct of cowardice caused him to peer fearfully back into the dark shop. Silhou- etted against the front door was a dread figure—a policeman. The patrolman had stepped into the doorway to escape the cutting wind. Har- rison did not know that. He did not stop to reason. 7 A window at the rear gave onto a wagon yard. The match dropped from his fingers and he reached the window in two long strides. Finally he gained the side street and freedom. 3 _ Next afternoon, fromsacross the street, he ventured a guilty glance. The shop had not burned. The sheriff’s bill of attach- ment was posted on the door. “Me work?” said the ragged, dirty little man who had stopped a stranger in Madi- son Square. ‘‘ Why, mister, you know an honest man can’t find work nowadays! The big money guns won’t let him. By Heaven, them big trust bosses have got a strangle hold on this country. They’re an octopus—that’s what, an octopu§—squeez- ing the life’s blood out of the poor, grind- ing us poor devils for our last cent and throwing us out like a sucked orange. What’s the matter with America? That’s what’s the matter, the moneyed crooks that are robbing the poor man—and nobody’s doing anything to stop it. Law? Don’t make me laugh! ‘There ain’t no law for our kind. To hell with such a country!” Rather hesitantly, the stranger gave him a quarter. The little man’s song changed.. Tears came into his eyes, and his chin quivered. “I don’t ask charity,” he whimpered, pocketing the coin quickly. ‘‘ To hell with charity. I wasn’t always like this—had a business of my own—gent’s furnishings. I was as good a man as you are, but a woman wrecked my life. Yes, sir, a damned lovely woman. I loved her and she was false tome. To hell with women.” III. COMRADES was an ultra radical news- paper, published in a basement on East Eleventh Street. Leon Minsch owned an comiclboool< C©