Argosy All-Story Weekly, October 7, 1922 — page 61: what you’re looking at

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

THE BIRD OF PASSAGE. ‘“‘Qsborne,” said Springtime, wrinkling his brows in an effort at memory. ‘“ New- comers, aren’t they?” ‘Yes. They’ve been there only thirty years.” Springtime laughed, but became wary. The stableman’s face did not change a trifle, although the twinkling points of light in the eyes deepened. There was more to this man than met the eye, and under cover of brushing his shoes he inspected him care- fully again, this time taking in the un- pressed trousers and the big brass watch chain which had been uncovered by his change of position. At the end of that perusal he felt that the old boy was still all right, for there was a horsey look about him. The pad saddles on the wall an- nounced that the owner of that bay horse dealt in running horses and not trotting horses, and it is notorious that running horses break down all distinctions. If there had been a sulky in the stable Springtime would never have made his next move. “T’ve got to get some dope on the folks there,” he said with his frankest smile. ““Who’s the lady in the side yard?” “T can’t see from here.” “I’m guessing she’s the lady of the house.” “« Just why?” “T don’t know—it’s my hunch.” The stableman swung one knee over the other and settled back. “Was she feeding a wild goose?” he asked. ‘She was feeding some kind of a fowl. I heard it making some sort of racket.” “Well, that is the lady of the house— Mrs. Osborne. She has three daughters— Lou, Maude and Kitty. Lou has just gone back for her last year in college, and Maude has gone for her fast. Kitty is still at home. They’ve lived in that place for a number of years, and it was at one time a sort of boarding house—hotel for good traveling men. That was before Tom Os- borne struck it rich. Not a traveler in there for the last five years, though.” “ Thanks,” said Springtime warmly. The old boy had come through better than he had ever expected he would. His plan of campaign was immediately clear to him. McCabe? 207 He would go and lay claim to being one of the men who, at some distant point in the past, had stopped there. If worst came to worst, he could claim to be out of luck or something like that. He took out his kit of thin brushes and went over his clothes carefully, and rapped the dust out of his cap against the fence. A fresh necktie, which he carried in an inner pocket, smartened things up won- derfully, as did a little wetting and brush- ing of his hair. When he had done he looked at himself in his mirror—a bit of plate.set in a wooden frame—and he had to admit that the effect was not bad. Prob- ably it was going to be easy, for any woman who would take care of a wild goose could not be altogether flinty-hearted. All of this had not taken five minutes, and he was putting on his coat when the old man spoke up again, and at the words Springtime whirled as though he had been stabbed in the back. “°Twon’t do you any good.” “What won’t?” “‘ Don’t try to be foxy with me, my boy. Don’t you suppose I can lamp ’em?” Springtime stared hard and then surren- dered. ““There’s no harm in taking a chance,” he said, “and my mouth sure waters for some of that pie on the window sill. I never did see such a pair of beauties.” ““'Then you’d better grab one and beat it. She wouldn’t feed you if you went up there on your hands and knees. She’s death on panhandlers; anybody that bat- ters her door is sure in for a hard time. Take it from me, boy, she’s got charity, but she’s got charity for things that don’t need it—Fiji Islanders and wild geese.” Springtime stared while these words fell like hammers. The old chap still looked horsey, but he was not quite so dull as his stocky figure would lead one to believe. But his eyes were friendly, and there was just a touch of bitterness in his words that led Springtime to believe that he was an ally. “‘ She can’t do any more than refuse.” “Qh, can’t she? Ever heard of Slim I thought that would get to you. He’s worse than Jeff Carr ever thought of comicboooks C©