Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 130: what you’re looking at

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

By GEORGE B. JENKINS, JR. nounced importantly as he dropped into a chair beside me in the Automat. 1 had dropped into this nickel-nursers’ Del- monico for a cup of Java and a little rest. “Spill the story, Eddie,” J suggested amiably. Every one who knows I once en- tered a newspaper’s booklovers’ contest thinks I am an author. Eddie, who ill- treats a wicked snare drum in the orchestra of the Palatial Theater, has often told me that he would write some of the things he’s _ seen if he could ever find the time. _ Thirty minutes later I came out of a doze. Eddie was evidently on the final lap Mf the story. After the first hundred words lew we were both wasting our time, but ’t have the courage to smear the clow iness in his eyes. He thought the as telling was a million dollars in Ut to my mind it wasn't » Nea’ asU CLL, | got a story for you,” Eddie an- pe. 2 — Ali- haired old ladies; they don’t to father. Gordon said, * You may be my mother, but I think you're a meddling old hag. If you’d kept your mouth shut, I wouldn’t have shot him.’ Then he leaped for New York, shipped on a tramp as a common sailor, and never came back. How could he, after what had happened? “Well, the old dame sold all the furni- ture in the apartment,” Eddie concluded, “went down to Atlantic City and vamped an ancient gent on the boardwalk. He had a soft spot in the bean, and he married her before the courts could sav he was insane. Now the old dame is worth millions. What d’you think of that?” “ Rotten,” I replied mournfully. ‘ The thing is absurd and unbelievable. Why. you’ve made a woman deliberately ruin her son’s life! And then marry money after- ward! It may be true, Eddie, and every- thing, but I wouldn’t send that to a maga- zine on a bet. The dear public likes to think of mothers as nice, sweet, white- want to admit choo (eo) Ni