Argosy, Vol. 123, No. 2 — page 115: what you’re looking at

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

MONEY “Now, ain’t that a pretty picture,” grumbled Mrs: Casey; but here Margaret calmly shut the door behind her. Now, it was a very clean and well-kept room as rooms went in La Blanca. The strip of matting by the bed had once been a bright and cheerful spot, though now the shuffling of unnumbered feet had worn away the design, and the original reds and greens were oddly blended in that common overtone of gray. The bed itself had, on a time, been neatly enameled in white over the iron, and indeed there were still patches of white here and there upon the frame, though usually in a peeling state. the rest of the room: time, not Mrs. Casey, was at fault. The lip of the ‘pitcher was roughly broken away, exposing the brown stuff of the earthware, and a jagged crack darted down the fair, smooth belly of the pitcher. The wall-paper was on three sides regu- larly and pleasantly green, with a design in gold, but on a fourth side some torrential rain, leaking, perhaps, from the floor of the The wash-stand was like BALKS. 247 room above, had washed out the green and the gold, and streaked that portion of the wall with grisly browns. It was along this wall, therefore, that the practical common sense of Mrs. Casey had concentrated the pictures. Three nymphs danced in a discreetly misty wood- land; neighboring, a big Newfoundland held guard over a little kitten, his brows wrinkled with supernal and defiant wisdom; and there was a flour-poster showing a girl - with a shower of straw-colored hair down her back and several choice stalks of wheat between the whitest of white teeth; while nearby was a print of George Washington —forehead singularly narrow and his jaw most amazingly large. 3 It chanced that now the smile of the self- less patriot looked over the head of Tyson and straight into the eyes of Margaret; and it freed her, strangely, from the hysteria that had leaped up in her throat when she first saw Hal. She recovered slowly from the first shock. That wavering, gaunt-faced man was not the one she knew. He was not clean. This story will be continued in next week’s issue of the ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY, the consolidated title under which both magazines will appear hereafter as one. LOOM! Gloom in black, squashy chunks was perched on Pete’s shoulder and riding his soul like an imp from the lower regions. The heavy, dark cloud hanging over distant Bishop’s Point was no more depressing than the mantle of hopeless despair which engulfed the old negro’s very being and was smoth- ering the last vestige of hope within him. Pete had heard some time, somewhere, that hope springs eternal in the human breast; but his very attitude gave this and COMICLO© S C©