Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 144: what you’re looking at

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

warning you that unless I do get free, Im going to fight--in some way OF another. You've had the drop on me and you’ve put me through the worst three weeks I’ve ever heen through.” ree Haven't you learned anything from it?’ asked Osborne, and there was @ glimmer of his old self in the sharpness of the question. “ Nothing—-except to hate work.” “ Aren’t you glad that you stuck it out-— didn’t give up-——made a machine to take the drudgery out of the job? Put a real piece of work through by being patient?” “Go on!” said Springtime bitterly. + How could I help being patient when you had the drop on me? It was a Case of sorting beans or breaking rock, and I’m darned if I don’t think I had rather break rock. What’s the sense in patting me on the back for doing a job I had to do?” “You didn’t have to. You could have sat there in the shed and smoked brown paper cigarettes until you had made a smoked ham out of yourself. There wasn’t any way I could force you to pick over beans, and the fact was that I didn’t want to force you—I rather hoped yqu would choose to do it once you got started. f hoped you might learn to tackle a dull job and stick through until it was done, for the reason that there’s a great deal of just that sort of drudgery in any kind of real man’s work. Lots of times a man swears, when he gets through building a house or training a horse or anything that takes time, he'll never tackle such a thing again, but if he has made a success of it he does take an- other job and so on through life. If he’s any good he takes on another, even if he has failed. You’re a rambler, and I didn’t know but what—once you’d got around a dull piece of work—it might mean that you would stay here and go into something per- manent factory or office or farm manage- ment. I think I could rake up something.” Springtime tipped his head back like a dog howling at the moon and bayed: “‘ No!” ‘ All right, all right—I was only trying to be decent. Things around here need new blood—these things I'm in, and I don’t know what will become of ’em when I’m i old manner. “4 cluded, rearing back in his Coes same cast-iron nerve, that Une pluperfect nerve which has carne through life so far, would probably Dé an asset even in as slow a town as Unis. He took out his handkerchief and trut peted, shot back his cuffs, and all the Dns tling aggressiveness of him came to the SUr- face. i “ You can’t make a silk purse out of @ sow’s ear,” he said, “ and the Chinese have a proverb which says that rotten wood can- not be carved—in plain United States that means that a decent citizen cannot be made out of a bum. Have you sold all your share of those beans?” &é Yes.”’ “ What did you get for them?” “ Three dollars a bushel.” Osborne pushed his chair back and looked at his prisoner, guest, and employee. ‘““ Now, who the devil gave you three dol- lars a bushel for beans when the top price has been two ninety-five for the past month?”’ ‘‘ Pasquale,” said Springtime, trymg to keep the triumph out of his face, “ the pro- vision merchant.” ‘What did you do, blackjack him?” “No. I just told him that they had been sorted by a special process called remilling, and he reckoned that was worth an extra five cents a bushel. He has a lot of them in his window now with a card stuck in them that says: ‘ Early Osbornes. Remilled. The better bean,’ ”’ Osborne made a note on a pad—a fur- tive movement, which did not, however, es- cape Springtime. “No use,” he said gently. ‘‘ I’ve sold him all he will take. Your share will have to go to the elevator.” ‘‘ Beat me to it, huh? Son, that’s what I © mean when I say that things need ne y blood. I’ve been raising beans for years— all kinds, hand-picked, hand-sorted, bu remilled bean, the better bean, never’ com ic