Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 16, 1921 — page 56: what you’re looking at

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

BRASS BUTTONS. Why not forgetfulness? Lethe itself, say I, is the sweetest draft that lips can touch. Show me the queen of ladies or the prince of good fellows who would not wipe out nine-tenths of his life and start with a clean slate! I tell you, sir, [ have known men of royal blood who would gladly forget it, because the purple is mixed with dregs of the gutter—the bar sinister across their lives. So, I say again, we’ll drink to forget- fulness.” | “Very well,” said Samson absent-mind- edly, but his eyes wandered afar and dwelt on some image of his own choosing. The coachman stepped closer, clinked his glass with that of Samson, and the Puri- tan drained his potion with one swallow. ‘““Phaugh!” he exclaimed with a slight shudder. - “ Bitter stuff!” ‘“ True,”’ nodded the coachman. And Samson saw that the glass of his companion gave no evidence of having been tasted. “Too bitter for me,” continued the -coachman, setting down his goblet on the table. ‘ Besides, I can sleep without it.” It seemed to Samson that he was seeing AT the other through a veil, and a peculiar whirling set up in his brain. Moreover, through the mist it seemed to him that the coachman watched him with a rather mock- ing smile. A horrible fear burst upon him. ‘* Fellow!” he cried, *“‘ take up your own glass, and drain it to the dregs or I'll spit you like a toad!” “So harsh?” smiled the coachman. “Good Master Samson, I’m in no such hurry to sleep. I shall not drink the wine, and I give not that for your sword!”’ And he snapped his fingers under the very nose of the Puritan. “Treason!” cried Samson hoarsely. “Treason and murder! Help, ho!” But he knew, even as the words came, that his voice was no louder than a whisper. He drew his sword, but the coachman made no move toward self-defense. He had no need, for the hilt slipped from the numbed fingers of Samson and crashed upon the floor. Gathering the last remnants of his fading strength he struck full at the face of the coachman, but a curtain of solid black- ness dropped over his eyes and he knew no more. (To be continued NEXT WEEK.) blond of ‘hair and blue of eyes, drove her snappy roadster slowly up alongside the row of smart little shops on the exclusive Circle. Each parking spot Poona charming Ruth Chester, Rebecca I. Hodges was already filled by the electrics or sedans or limousines whose owners were inside the lingerie or hat or corset bowers where she longed to be. Ruth puckered her pretty brows for a conmicloool< (C@